


His Greatest Adventure

by Citation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Loss, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Rare Pairings, Season 4 AU, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-17 18:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13664898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citation/pseuds/Citation
Summary: AU for Series 4. Moriarty doesn’t reappear and Sherlock goes to his mission.  He survives and one year later he returns home to discover a tragedy has befallen John and Mary.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all I wish to say I loved S4 and this isn’t a fix-it story because, in my humble opinion, there is nothing to fix and I loved it. However, I mourned Mary’s death because she was a wonderful character. So I decided to give her a better fate in this story. 
> 
> A warning for John’s fans: you may not like his portrayal in this story, but most of it based on what we saw in canon. And, if you decide to keep going, well...I think you’ll like the end.
> 
> Also, this story deals with the aftermath of a traumatic loss of a child. There is no real graphic mention of it, but you may find the topic upsetting. 
> 
> At last but not least, a BIG THANK YOU to my beta Laura and to Sejal, for her advice in medical matters and for listening to my rablings while I was plotting the story. Sejal, if you are still in this fandom, this is for you!

**I**

**_This story assumes that you have seen “The Six Thatchers” and that most of scenes happened as seen on screen, bearing in mind, of course, the obvious changes due to the AU nature of this story._ **

 

The MI6 building room was dark, and the armchair he was sitting on was very comfortable. Sherlock had to struggle to stay awake, as Mycroft, Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin were discussing in hushed tones. There was another woman sitting slightly on the side, probably a secretary or private assistant, listening but not contributing to the discussion.

Sherlock had been in this same office exactly one year and three days ago, when he had accepted an assignment from MI6 instead of a life sentence in jail as punishment for killing Charles Augustus Magnussen.

Mycroft had predicted the mission – to infiltrate a Chechen army dealers ring – would have proved fatal in six months and, as Sherlock had said to John Watson as they parted ways, his brother was never wrong.

Sherlock had accepted the assignment fully knowing the dangers, because it was far better to die making a difference one last time than go mad with boredom in jail. A week spent in isolation had been enough.

As a matter of fact Sherlock had thought to be resigned to his fate—but when the push come to the shove, when he had really risked being discovered and killed, his survival instinct had shouted: No! All resignation had gone and he had fought back. He had been smarter than his enemies, he had survived and he completed the mission.

Most importantly, he had proved Mycroft wrong.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock was startled by the voice and realized that despite his efforts to stay awake, he had fallen asleep. Spending a year undercover, with the constant fear of being discovered, having to be always on the edge and three steps ahead of his enemies had been exhausting. He had relied on adrenaline, coffee and other stimulants to stay focused, but now he was literally crashing. He needed to sleep and relax and for the first time in his life the prospect of having nothing to do was appealing.

Sherlock forced himself to sit straighter on the armchair and said, “Yes?”

Mycroft moved to stand near him, with a remote in his hands. “What you're about to see is classified beyond top secret. Is that quite clear? Once you are beyond these walls, you must never speak of it.”

The screen in front of Sherlock came to life, showing a recording of the night he had killed Magnussen, probably filmed by one of the SAS men that had arrived shortly before he had pulled the trigger.

“A D notice has been slapped on the entire incident,” Mycroft went on, “Only those within this room, code names Antarctica, Langdale, Porlock and Love, will ever know the whole truth. As far as everyone else is concerned, going to the Prime Minister and way beyond, Charles Augustus Magnussen...”

Sherlock watched himself standing outside Appledore with John and Magnussen, but according to this video he had no hand in killing the Danish magnate.

“I see,” Sherlock commented, “who is supposed to have shot him, then?”

“Some over-eager squaddie with an itchy trigger finger - that's who,” Mycroft answered.

Sherlock nodded. It was a plausible explanation and the video montage had been quite good.

“That is now the official version, the version anyone we want to will see. No need to go to the trouble of getting some sort of official pardon,” Lady Smallwood said in an official tone. Then her expression softened and she continued, “The spectre of Magnussen’s death no longer hangs over your head, Mr. Holmes. What you did in Chechnya was beyond our most optimistic expectations and we all agreed you deserve to return be a free citizen.”

Sherlock smiled, “Thank you.”

“Naturally,” Mycroft interjected, “we all hope you‘ve learned your lesson and that nothing like this will ever happen again.”

Sherlock just nodded. He had learned his lesson quite well.

“Good,” Lady Smallwood smiled, “then there is nothing more to say but welcome back, Mr. Holmes.”

Everyone stood up and Sherlock did too, with some difficulty due to his painful right knee. He had busted his ligaments during a knife fight and while the surgery in Grozny had been successful, the impossibility to rest and take it easy for a few weeks had compromised his recovery. There was the chance he would need another surgery, but right now Sherlock just wanted to go home and sleep.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

“So,” Mycroft said as the car speeded across London, “what do you plan to do now that you’re back and free? Back to solving your little cases? Or will you finally accept my offer and come to work for MI6? No field work but analysis and deductions, just as you do now, but on a much grander scale. What you did in Chechnya was truly remarkable.”

Sherlock looked out of the window, drinking in the sight of the city he had thought would never see again and answered, “Thank you for the offer but no. I prefer to choose what cases I wish to follow and I don’t like fixed hours jobs. Moreover, right now I just want to rest and recover. I want to go back to my violin and music. I might even go to visit Mum and Dad.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, surprised by his candour. Sherlock too was rather surprised by his openness but, he reasoned, it might be due to one year spent living another man’s life, a year of lies and of constantly hiding his true self. Now that he was back home, he saw no point in lying or deflecting. Mycroft was free to think what he wanted of it.

However his brother didn’t tease him or look at him with scorn. Instead he nodded and said, “I understand.” There was a pause and when he spoke again his tone was very serious. “As I suppose you’ll go to see the Watsons as soon as you can, there is something you need to know.”

Sherlock turned to look at his brother, a shiver of dread running along his back. He knew something really bad had happened.

“Their daughter died shortly after birth and they aren’t coping well with the tragedy.”

Sherlock felt blood leave his face. John and Mary’s child was dead? Of the many things he had thought could happen to them – John no longer coping with Mary having been an assassin for hire, Mary’s past returning to threaten them again, John getting into a fight to shake off his need for excitement – this had never been contemplated.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

“About two weeks before Mrs. Watson’s due date, she was on a Tube escalator when two men in front of her started fighting. One of them shoved the other, who in turn pushed violently against Mary. As result, she lost her balance and fell down the steps. She was immediately taken to A&E for an emergency C-section but the baby had suffered too much damage to be saved. She lived only a few minutes.”

Sherlock just stared, unable to say anything.  He couldn’t imagine the grief Mary and John had to be suffering. He wasn’t good at feelings, but the loss of a child had to be very traumatic and it wasn’t surprising they weren’t coping well. He also remembered a statistic he had once seen, about the high number of couples that ceased to be after the loss of their child.

Sherlock just hoped John and Mary wouldn’t end up in that statistic.

 

**II**

Ten days later Sherlock felt well enough to face the world again.

Since his return to Baker Street the only things he had done were sleeping, playing the violin and eating all the food the ecstatic and fussing Mrs. Hudson prepared for him.

Mycroft had sent one of the best orthopaedics in London to check his knee and the prognosis had been good. Yes, the ligaments had suffered because they hadn’t been given enough time to heal after the surgery, but the doctor was confident a second operation wouldn’t be necessary. He recommended Sherlock to wear a light brace and use a walking cane if the leg was especially painful, to avoid walking too much and to apply icepacks if he noticed swelling. The specialist said he would be able to run again in a few months.

So on that Saturday afternoon, Sherlock announced to Mrs. Hudson he was going to visit John and Mary. According to their habits before he left, the couple was always home on Saturday afternoon, preferring to do their weekly shopping in the morning.

Mrs. Hudson, to whom he had given strict instructions not to tell anyone he was back until he said otherwise, was happy when she saw him preparing to go out. She fussed over him,  straightening the collar of his new coat and brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders.

“They will be happy to see you,” she said with a smile. “And it will be good for all of you to be back together. But please, dear, be careful of what you say. John’s temper...”

“Yes?” He prodded when her voice died.

“Let’s say it takes nothing to make him shout nowadays. He’s angry with the entire world and showing it.”

“I understand,” Sherlock answered as he left the house and fetched a cab, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

When Sherlock knocked on the door of the Watsons’ house, John came to open it. He recognized the approaching steps and stepped back, not knowing how his friend would react at his sight.  He remembered what had happened the night he had returned from his two years away and Mrs. Hudson’s words. However, there was no reason to worry this time as John looked happy to see him.

The older man smiled and commented, “So I was right, uh? I always thought your brother would find a way to get you pardoned.”

Sherlock didn’t reply as he followed John inside and hung his coat on the rack in automatic moves. He was slightly irked by his friend’s patronizing tone. True, John didn’t know his assignment had been supposed to be a suicide one, but even so the doctor didn’t think it was Sherlock’s work that had earned him a pardon.

He tailed John in the living room, letting his eyes dart around to see how the place had changed since the last time he had been there.

The first thing he noticed was the lack of flowers and plants. Mary loved them and had keep a few near the window but now they were missing. Then came the realization, like an unsettling feeling, that the room was no longer a true living room. It was too clean, with no dust in sight and nothing out of place. Where were Mary’s novels and John’s medical bulletins?  Where was the bowl where they dropped their spare change at the end of the day? The DVDs scattered messily over the player? The CDs near the stereo? The pink pillow that somehow always managed to fall on the floor? They were all gone, like the plants.

John and Mary’s place had never been as chaotic as his flat but it had been warm, filled with the objects belonging to the people living in it. There had been signs that the house was inhabited by two people working long hours and dealing with cleaning and tidying up as best as they could. Now the room was spotless and cold.

Mary was there and she smiled broadly upon seeing him, rushing to embrace him. He hugged her back and when she stepped back she took both of his hands in hers, squeezed them and said, “Welcome back, Sherlock. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he replied, sincere. He had missed her as friend but also as possible ally, for it would have been handy to have someone with her skills in Chechnya.

Mary let go of his hands after another squeeze and went to sit on the couch, while John motioned Sherlock to take the armchair.

“Can I offer you something?” John asked as he stood by the cabinet.

“No, thank you,” he answered and watched with a frown as John poured himself a rather stiff shot of Scotch.  He quickly glanced at Mary and saw she was biting her lower lip, as if she was restraining from speaking.

Mary’s hands were red, the skin irritated, a common symptom of exaggerated contact with detergents. She was the one spending long hours cleaning the house, possibly to fill the time she had dreamed to spend with her baby. She was also underweight, her face more lined than Sherlock remembered.

John too bore the signs of his great tragedy; he looked older and his eyes were slightly bloodshot.  And when he sat down on the couch, Sherlock noticed with a pang, he put as much space as possible between himself and his wife.

Sherlock shifted on the armchair and murmured, “Mary, John, I’ve been informed of your loss. There’re no words to express how sorry I am that something so terrible had to happen to you. Please know that if there is anything I can do for you, I will do it.”

John took a gulp of his liquor and replying, “Thanks for the thought Sherlock but there isn’t much you or anyone else can do.”

Sherlock nodded, not really knowing what to say. The atmosphere in the room was stifling, the tension so heavy it could have been cut with a knife. Mary was so silent and motionless, so unlike the woman she had been that he didn’t know how to relate with her.

“So, where have you been?” John asked, breaking the silence.

“In Chechnya, deep undercover among army dealers.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Mary commented and there was concern on her face. John instead drank more, with a wistful look.

“Very,” Sherlock agreed. “But it was fine and I escaped with just a busted knee.”

“Are you going back to solving cases?” John asked eagerly, leaning forward on his seat.

“Yes, but not right now. My knee isn’t up to strenuous exercise yet.”

“I see,” John replied, disappointed.

Silence fell again, becoming more oppressive with each passing moment. Sherlock would have scoffed at the idea silence could be anything but lack of noise, but it was true. Only one year had passed since the last time they had seen each other and they seemed like strangers, unable to find something in common. Sherlock – who hated small talk – even tried to make the ball roll by telling them about the donkey in Gudermes that had followed him around like a dog, but it was in vain. His friends were there, but he barely recognized them. Even more worryingly, he noticed that they never interacted with each other, only with him.

In the end Sherlock couldn’t bear more of John’s silent drinking and Mary looking down at her hands. He stood up claiming he had things to do at home.

He walked to the couch and bent down to kiss Mary’s cheeks, and went to retrieve his coat from the rack. It was then he spotted three long, ginger hair on the left shoulder of John’s blue winter coat. It was a woman’s hair and it was unlikely they had fallen there by chance. As if it wasn’t enough, a discreet sniff revealed a perfume he had never scented on Mary.

Sherlock frowned. He knew well what those findings could mean, but he couldn’t believe John- loyal, steadfast John- could be cheating on his wife.

Or could he?

As he had thought just a few minutes before, Sherlock barely recognised him. This man was different from the one he had left behind one year ago and Sherlock could no longer swear to know him like the back of his hand.

The object of his musing joined him and opened the door, saying in a light tone, “Let me know when you get a good one. I missed going on cases.”

“I will,” Sherlock  replied and stepped outside.

He felt relieved to be out of that house, and very worried about the future of John and Mary’s marriage.

As he walked toward the cab parking he thought about what he could do to help them.

At their wedding he had vowed to always be there for them. It had been meant as a promise to protect them from all kind of dangers. He had killed Magnussen because he was, among the other things, a threat to his friends’ happiness-- and he knew he would kill again should it be the only way to keep his chosen family safe.

But what could he do to protect John and Mary when the people harming them were themselves?

 

**III**

 

Four days later Sherlock hadn’t yet reached any conclusions about what to do for John and Mary. Romantic love was a mystery to him; his only knowledge of it was due to observation of others, from his happy but ordinary parents, to soon-to-be-divorced clients consulting him about their cheating partners, to John and Mary themselves. Moreover, even if he could rationally understand what a loss of a child did to the parents, he hadn’t direct experience with a similar sense of loss.

He felt unsure, powerless and inadequate to help his friends and they were all feelings he didn’t like in the least.

That early afternoon he decided to take a pause from his musing and went to visit Molly at Bart’s. She was happy to see him and once again engaged, this time to a fellow doctor. Sherlock found himself hoping this time it would work out for her, for she was a generous and kind woman and deserved a man fully able to appreciate her. Nevertheless, he decided to do some research on her fiancé, just to make sure he was fully trustable with no skeletons in  his closet.

Molly gave him a welcome back present in the form of two kidneys, belonging to a man who had died after eating a plate of Fool’s Webcap mushrooms. Sherlock was planning the experiments he would do on the organs when, as he was leaving Bart’s, he spotted John crossing the street not far from him.

He was about to call for his friend’s name but the way John was walking stopped him. The doctor’s steps were energetic, with that kind of spring Sherlock remembered he always had when they went to crime scenes. John was  obviously anticipating something exciting and enjoyable.

Curious to see what it was, Sherlock tailed him. It wasn’t difficult: John never looked back and there were enough people in the street to offer him a good cover.

Finally John reached his destination, a small cafe famous for its excellent pastries. They had eaten there several times after trips to Bart’s morgue, discussing cases while sitting at the outside tables, sometimes just the two of them, sometimes with Molly.

However, it was evident John wasn’t there for a memory trip. He opened his arms, smiled brightly and reached for a woman standing near the cafe door—a young woman with long ginger hair.

Sherlock watched as his deductions were confirmed: John and the woman embraced and kissed in a way that clearly showed they were lovers and had been for a while.  Sherlock watched until John led his companion inside the cafe, then slowly turned to return from where he had come, his excitement about the kidneys all but gone.

It was then that a flash of red caught his eyes. It was Mary on the other side on the road, wearing the bright red coat she had on the day he had left for Chechnya. She was standing near a bus stop, staring at the cafe.

She had been following John, Sherlock deduced, and her choice of coat showed she hadn’t even tried to be discreet. Maybe she had even hoped to be discovered, but John hadn’t noticed her.

The streetlight became green and Mary crossed the road, a determined look of her face as she pointed straight toward the cafe. She wanted to confront John there, in front of his lover and the other patrons.

Sherlock moved to intercept her, not sure if he wanted to stop her or join her, when Mary spotted him. A look of surprise crossed her face, before her determination returned. She shook her head with decision. She didn’t want him to interfere, she wanted to confront John  and wanted to do it alone.

Sherlock stopped walking and Mary tilted her head, indicating the street behind him, silently telling him to go away.

He just nodded and did as she had asked. He turned on his heels and walked away, wondering if this was going to be the end of his friends’ marriage.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Later that evening, Sherlock was sitting on his armchair with his right foot propped up on what had used to be John’s chair, with a icepack on his knee. After seeing John and Mary he had wandered without a destination for hours lost in thought, until his knee had started hurting and he had to limp to the closest cab parking.

He heard the door downstairs open and close and he nodded to himself. He had expected a visit and Mary didn’t disappoint.

She entered the living room a few moments later still wearing her red coat, whose colour was now matched by her eyes and nose. She had cried for a long time but she now looked composed, at least on surface.

Sherlock stood up, letting the icepack fall and went to embrace her. Mary pulled him closer, buried her face in his dressing gown and began to cry again.

“It’s over,” she mumbled between sobs, as Sherlock awkwardly stroked her back.

After a while Mary stepped back, still sniffling but more in control. Sherlock limped to the kitchen and returned with glass of water and a box of tissue. She accepted them with a weak, grateful smile. She gulped the water and took the glass back to the kitchen, rinsing it as she said, “Sit down and put that icepack on.”

Sherlock did so, putting his foot back on the armchair seat as Mary perched on its arm.

“You were following John,” Sherlock said without preamble. “You knew he was cheating on you.”

She nodded, using a tissue to dab her eyes. “It wasn’t the first time, Sherlock. It started shortly after you left but no, don’t you dare feel guilty and think it wouldn’t have happened had you been here. The fault isn’t yours, it’s John‘s and mine.

Sherlock stared at her, stunned. “But you love each other!”

“Yes, but sometimes love isn’t enough. We obviously aren’t able to give the other what they need and...Rosie’s death precipitated things.”

“Rosie?” Sherlock asked softly.

“Rosamund Mary...that’s how she was Christened. The priest had barely finished when...she stopped breathing.” Mary sniffled and blew her nose. “John believes it’s my fault she died.”

Sherlock frowned. “How so?”

“He says that I should have used my past life skills to prevent the fall...”

“That’s unreasonable! Your balance was compromised by the weight of the baby, there was no way you could have prevented the fall.”

Mary looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re very sure of it.”

“I watched the cam recordings of the incident.”

“I saw them too...and yet I still wonder. Maybe if I had paid more attention to those two men I could have side stepped or braced myself for the impact...” Mary’s voice broke, as new tears fell from her eyes.

Sherlock looked at her, ready to remove the icepack and go to embrace her again but she took a deep breath and looked around the room, her eyes drying.

“You were right that night in this room, Sherlock. When you said John is abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people. He isn’t yet ready to leave that part of himself behind. Not now, perhaps not ever. I am instead more than ready to be a housewife. For many years I courted danger, it was fun but then I realized you can't outrun that forever. When the day came that danger got too close, I decided to stop and start a new life.” Mary stared in front of her, lost in her memories. “I found a new name, a job I liked and John.” She smiled and looked down at him. “Then I found you too, Sherlock, and I’ll never apologize enough for shooting you and not trusting you. Be assured it won’t happen again.”

“I know,” he replied, softly but firmly.

“I can live without danger, but John doesn’t and when he could no longer find an outlet for his needs in your cases, he started cheating. I think he did it more for the thrill of doing something a respectable family man shouldn’t do than for real desire of a lover. For the thrill of possibly being discovered-- look where he met her today, in a cafe so close to Bart’s and frequented habitually by Molly and Mike Stanford.”

“Did you confront him before today?”

“Once...before the incident. He told me exactly what I said to you just now. That he did it for the thrill of doing something illicit. I forgave him as he sounded sincere when he promised that he wouldn't do  it again, and it was only fair I gave him a second chance after he gave it to me. Maybe he would have kept his promise had Rosie lived but when we lost her...we lost each other.”

Sherlock could only nod because what Mary had said was coherent with what he knew of John.

“Did you try and see a therapist? Both of you, I mean, together?” He asked. “I read it can be helpful for couple that suffered the loss of child to confront with their pain together.”

“I proposed the idea but John replied he would deal with it on his own.”

“Yes, by drinking and cheating,” Sherlock commented, trying not to feel disappointed with his friend and failing. He had once said John was the wisest and best man he had ever known; he had appreciated his friend’s dedication to other people and his compassion. As he had  declared in his best man’s speech, “I’ll solve your crime but John Watson will save your life.”

But where was that compassion now? Why did he choose to find comfort in drinks and another woman’s arms instead of with his wife? Why was he so set Mary had to be blamed for their child’s death?

So many questions and the only one able to answer was John. Sherlock decided to visit his friend because he needed to hear his side of the story too.

In the meantime he had to take care of Mary. “What will you do now?” he asked to her.

“The first thing I need is a place where to stay. The lease contract of our flat is in John’s name, so I need to move. Do you think Mrs. Hudson would be willing to rent 221C to me?”

Sherlock waved his hand, as he was brushing her words away. “The flat is full of mould and it would take months to make it habitable. However, I’ve a free bedroom and it’s yours if you can bear with me.”

Mary looked at him, almost incredulously, “Do you really mean it?”

“I wouldn’t have offered it otherwise.”

“Then yes, I gladly accept your offer. Thank you, Sherlock.”

They smiled at each other and Sherlock pointed at the stairs with his hand. “As you know the room is up to those stairs. Forgive me if I don’t show you around but my knee is not up to it. I’ll lend you a pyjama for tonight and tomorrow we’ll hire a moving crew and remove all your things from your flat while John is at work.”

Mary nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**IV**

 

On Friday afternoon, still limping and using the cane, Sherlock entered the clinic where John worked. The receptionist, thinking he was there because of his knee, told him doctor Watson would see him after the patients that already had an appointment. It suited Sherlock fine because it meant there would be less witnesses around should their meeting degenerate into a shouting match or worse.

Sherlock sat in the waiting room and used his phone to text tips to DI Lestrade, Dimmock and Hopkins about current cases he had read about on the papers.

When his turn finally came, the nurse led him to the doctor’s office. “There is a new patient, doctor,” she said introducing him inside the room.

John was sitting in front of his desk computer and when he raised his head he was quite surprised to see Sherlock there.

“Hey,” he said standing up. “What are you doing here?” He noticed the cane and added, “Is your knee bothering you?”

“Among other things,” Sherlock replied, as it was true.

“Well, remove your trousers and sit on the table, “John said. “I need to insert the last patient’s data and then I’ll take a look to it.”

Sherlock did as he was told and a few minutes later John joined him and began to probe at his swollen knee, bending and straightening it with care.

“Uhm,” he muttered as he worked, “how much time passed since the surgery?”

“Three months.”

“So some swelling could still be expected but not to this degree and accompanied by such heat. You didn’t limp so badly last week...Did you strain your leg? Tried to run maybe?”

“I may have walked for several hours two days ago,” Sherlock said looking at John’s face. “I needed to think and I didn’t realize I was exaggerating until it was too late.”

John nodded, “That’s the kind of prolonged use your knee isn’t yet able to handle. I advise you to rest and use an icepack at twice a day until the swelling goes down. I’ll also give you an anti-inflammatory, something natural made with pineapple extracts, so it won’t upset your stomach.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, sliding down the table and putting his trousers back on. He took the pill bottle John gave him and put it in his coat pocket.

“Follow the doses printed on the bottle and, by God, rest!” John exclaimed.

“I’ll do my best,” Sherlock retorted with a smile. Then he sobered, “Thank you for the check and the pills John, but in truth I didn’t come here to ask your opinion about my knee; I came to see how you were coping with Mary leaving you.”

John stiffened for a moment, the relaxed again. “I should have guessed it. I also suppose you know why she left?” he asked, crossing the arms over his chest.

 _Defensive posture_ , Sherlock thought. “Yes, I know.”

“I’m ready to bet your homeless network told you. I noticed the increased number of tramps in my neighbourhood after you returned from the dead three years ago,” John commented, not pleased with the idea good being spied on.

“I won’t deny my network is keeping a discreet eye on your neighbourhood and reporting to me if something unusual happens in the area. You’re an easy target for anyone holding a grudge against me. However, this time, it was you who told me about your cheating. Or rather, it was your jacket and the hair and perfume on it,” Sherlock explained, looking down at his friend’s lined face. John seemed to have aged ten years since the day they saluted each other on the tarmac.

“Of course,” John commented with a grimace.

“Why John?” Sherlock asked quietly. “I thought you were happy with Mary. I don’t understand how this could have happened.”

“Well, that’s new: the great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t understand something. This is a day to remember,” John commented with sarcasm.

“John, “ Sherlock said seriously. “I killed a man to ensure you and Mary would have a happy life. I believe I have the right to know what happened to ruin it.”

“I can’t forgive her for the loss of our child, that’s why! “ John hissed, “She was able to knock off Magnussen’s guard and leave his office without being seen climbing on the roof while pregnant, and yet she wasn’t able to avoid falling from those stairs? I don’t believe it. I couldn’t bear to be close to her and found comfort with other women.” He brushed his eyes angrily, “I’m relieved she did the right thing and left.”

Sherlock was aghast by venom in his friend’s voice. “Don’t you think you both should try to talk and work it out?”

“No, Sherlock. This is a new situation for you as you are just back but we lost the child  nine months ago. The time for talking is long over and I would appreciate if you never broached the topic again,” John said full of finality. “Now go home and take care of that knee. There are probably other people waiting for me.”

“As you wish,” Sherlock replied, “Good evening, John.”

Sherlock limped out of the clinic and fetched a cab. On his way home he thought about what he had heard. John had implied he had started seeing other women after the loss of their child, as a reaction to the loss and his inability to forgive Mary. However Mary had said he had started cheating before her fall. So who was lying? And why?

 

**V**

 

Sherlock didn’t talk to Mary about his meeting with John and she didn’t ask if he had seen her husband.

They settled into their new life as flatmates with minimal fuss, mostly coming from Mrs. Hudson, who couldn’t stop worrying about how messy the flat was and how Mary “would certainly prefer if you didn’t leave open chemical bottles on the kitchen table.”

However, as soon as the landlady went away, Mary smiled at him and said, “You don’t need to change a thing, Sherlock. I love this place as it is.”

They quickly set a routine. Mary left for work in the morning while Sherlock was still asleep. She returned in the evening and cooked dinner for both of them, something he truly appreciated as he had never mastered cooking and always dined out or with take away. Afterward Mary watched the telly or read, while Sherlock replied to emails or surfed the net looking for interesting mysteries.  He conducted his experiments during the day, unwilling to disturb Mary when she returned home after work.

They didn’t talk much to each other, as they were still getting used to living together and were keenly conscious of the circumstances  that had led Mary to move in with Sherlock. However the silence wasn’t uncomfortable; they both knew they would talk when the time was right.

One evening, about ten days after Mary had moved in, she watched as Sherlock stood on tiptoes to take a book from the upper shelf of the bookshelf and commented, “Your knee is no longer bothering you as much as it did a few days ago.”

Sherlock  turned to look at her, “Yes, it’s doing much better.”

“John will be happy to hear his pills worked.”

Sherlock stiffened for a moment. “You know about them?”

Mary nodded, “Of course. I knew you would go to see him and he would probably want to check your knee. John has many faults, but he is a scrupulous doctor.”

“That’s true.”

“So...what did he say?” Mary asked, putting away the novel she had been reading.

Sherlock walked closer to her and replied, “What you told me: he reputes you responsible of Rosie’s death.”

Mary swallowed hard. “What else?”

“He admitted he was cheating on you but he said it started after the tragedy,” Sherlock raised his hand to stop Mary from protesting. “I know he is lying. I studied his phone records of the past year and I can tell exactly when his first affair started.” Sherlock thought best not to reveal what he had also discovered thanks to the GPS of John’s phone. It wasn’t something Mary needed to know. “I’m not very good with people, you know that, but I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do to help you and John to solve your problems. I’m sorry.”

Mary stood up  and took his hand in her own and said softly, but determined, “You may not be good with people, Sherlock, but you are being very good with me. They say real friends are seen in the moment of need...and here you are. I’ll never thank you enough for what are you doing for me.” She squeezed his hand before letting it go and wishing him good night.

Sherlock watched her leave the room feeling as if he had just been gifted with something very precious.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Every Sunday morning Mary dressed up with great care and went to the New Southgate Cemetery to visit her daughter’s grave.

She had never told Sherlock but he had deduced it by the fact her eyes were always red when she returned from such trips, by the dirt on her shoes, the occasional pine needle on her hair and the grass on her knee. A used Railway ticket from King’s Cross to New Southgate found in the trash bin just confirmed his hypothesis.

So one Sunday, when Mary came down from her room, she found Sherlock waiting for her dressed in his best suit and with a bouquet of white and pink lilies.

“I thought I could come with you,” he said a bit hesitant. “If you want it, that is.”

Mary just stared at him for a few instants, speechless and surprised. Then a small smile bent her lips and she whispered, “I would love it.”

Later, on the grounds of the restored Victorian cemetery, Sherlock posed his bouquet in front of Rosamund Mary Watson’s gravestone and, even if he rationally knew there was no one there listening to his words, he murmured, “I think I would have enjoyed being your uncle, Rosie.”

At his side Mary gasped aloud, as tears overflowed her eyes.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, alarmed. “Did I say something wrong? Did I offend you?”

“No,” Mary whispered, brushing her eyes. “It’s just...John has never referred to her by her name. She is always ‘the child’. It is so beautiful to hear someone else say her name.” She blew her nose and smiled weakly. “You would have been a wonderful uncle, Sherlock, because I know that no matter how many times you scoff at the word ‘sentiment’, deep inside you are full of feelings and love. You’re everything but a sociopath, because sociopaths don’t bring flowers to a grave nor do they talk with longing and regret to a dead child.” She kissed him softly on the cheek and smiled.

Mary turned again to face the gravestone and continued her conversation with her daughter as Sherlock stood beside her, a silent witness of a mother’s love.

 

**VI**

 

Sherlock returned home in a good mood. His knee was basically healed and he had solved another high profile case, finding a multi-million pound racehorse who had disappeared from a Lambourn training yard after his trainer had been killed. The case had been fun and exciting  and the best part of it had been John’s presence. Despite how disappointed Sherlock was with John’s behaviour toward Mary, he was still his best friend and he enjoyed spending time with him.

Unfortunately, the chase of the killer and horse-kidnapper had ended with a fall in a dung heap and Sherlock and John had suffered the indignity to return to London in the coroner van, for no cab would ever take them smelling as they did of horse manure.

Back home, Sherlock put all of his clothes in a trash bag he would later take to the laundry and took a long bath, which he preferred to showers when he had time to relax and enjoy the warm water. When he was done, he walked to the living room with only his pyjamas bottoms,  towelling his wet hair. He wanted to check his emails to see if something interesting had popped up during his two day absence.

He was busy reading about a man found dead in a pond with sand in his lungs when Mary returned from work.

“Hi Sherlock, we closed the clinic early today and I-” her voice died and Sherlock, who had risen to greet her, understood at once what had stopped her.

Mary was looking at the scar on his chest, the one caused by the bullet she shot him with. Due to the second surgery needed to repair the damage he had caused to himself by escaping from the hospital, the scar was bigger than a bullet hole, puckered and raised and very visible on his pale skin.

Mary approached him and when she was close enough she reached out with her hand and brushed the scar with her fingertips.  She raised her sad eyes to look at him. “I’m so sorry for this, Sherlock. I should have accepted your offer of help that night but I was so scared of what John would have thought of me.”

Sherlock took her small hand in his bigger one and murmured, “It’s okay. It’s all in the past.” He smiled in a reassuring way. “Now I need to dress as I’m getting cold.”

He walked past Mary to go to his bedroom to retrieve a t-shirt and his dressing gown, when he heard her gasp another time.

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed following him in the corridor.

“What?”

“Your back!” She sounded shocked. “What happened to you?!”

Sherlock stopped and turned to face her, “Dismantling Moriarty’s network wasn’t a walk in the park.”

“Geez, I can see that.” Mary circled  him and continued, “Knife cuts, cigarette burns, whip marks and...”

“Piece of water pipe,” he supplied.

“Uhm...but these scars aren’t three years old. They ‘re more recent.”

“As you said, my latest assignment was dangerous.”

“Yes, but how dangerous exactly?” Mary asked, in a tone that meant she wasn’t going to let the matter drop.

“Let me dress,” Sherlock replied, “and we’ll talk.”

“All right.” Mary returned to the living room and he continued to his bedroom.

When he was warm enough, Sherlock joined Mary, who, after having removed her shoes was now sitting with her legs folded on the couch.

“Sit here,” she encouraged him by patting the cushion near her. “Tell me everything.”

Sherlock decided to do just that, partly because Mary had proved to be able to see when he was lying and partly because he had the desire to let someone else know why, sometimes, he had nightmares that prevented him from falling asleep again. He knew that Mary, with her dangerous past as an international assassin, would understand better than anybody else.

So he rested against the back of the couch and began to speak. He told her of the snipers with the order to kill John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson if he didn’t kill himself. Told her of how difficult it was to decide to fake his death and why it was so important all his friends truly believed him dead. Told her how he spent two years chasing and eliminating – sometimes in a very permanent way – all the people who could have posed a danger to his friends. He also told her of his capture and torture in Serbia and how much his back had hurt when John had tackled him on the floor of that restaurant.

Mary nodded in understanding. “And what about your MI6 assignment? John told me that you said it would last six months and he really never believed we wouldn’t see you again. He was certain your brother would find a way to bring you back. However I was standing near Mycroft when the plane took off and I saw there were tears in his eyes... Don’t make that face!,” Mary chided him. “ It’s true. Your brother loves you and he was so upset by your leaving he spilled tears in front of, well, a stranger. I knew there and then there was something you hadn’t said to John.”

Sherlock cleared his voice because, even if he wouldn’t ever admit it, the idea of Mycroft crying for him had moved him. “What I didn’t say to John is that Mycroft had predicted my assignment would prove fatal in six months.”

“Oh.” Mary gasped, going pale.

“As I told you, I had to infiltrate a army trading ring smuggling ex-USSR weapons, including nuclear ones. I was to be a former MI6 agent with a grudge against Britain because of a perceived betrayal during a mission. My Serbian scars were handy to confirm that detail, but the risk of discovery was extremely high as the leaders of the group were paranoid and with contacts in UK. My mission was to find their base and the records of all their transactions, with the names and locations of their buyers. I risked discovery twice, the first one appropriately after six months, the other three months later. I refused to kill a boy who had witnessed by chance a murder, and the wounds you saw were the result of the knife fight following it. I managed to save my life, my cover and completed the mission. MI6 was very happy.”

“Shit!” Mary exclaimed, making Sherlock grin as she never cursed. “But now you are free, aren’t you? They aren’t going to send you on another assignment?” She was clearly worried and he rushed to reassure her.

“No, I’m free as a bird now.”

Mary rubber her hands over her tights, uneasy. “It seems I have to thank you again. John told me you said, ‘Give my love to Mary. Tell her she is safe now’ after you shot Magnussen. I was very grateful, you know, I told you, but this...this is something that goes beyond being grateful. You were sent to your death because of me!” She shook her head, agitated. “God! I know what Chechens do to traitors. I’ve seen it. Had they caught you, your death would have been excruciatingly painful—and it would have been because of me. I feel like I’ve no right to call you my friend after all the pain and grief I caused you.”

“No!” Sherlock vehemently shook his head, “you’ve every right because you are my friend. I shot Magnussen because I committed the greatest mistake of my career and was left with no other choice. It was him or us—you, John, Mycroft and me. I would like to say I agonised over it but it would be a lie. I never regretted what I did, because it meant my family was safe. As you said that night, people like Magnussen deserve to die, that’s why there are people like me.”

“And me,” Mary whispered.

“Yes, like us. However I confess I rather hope to never have to do it again.”

“Me too, although you must know that my old life...it was full of consequences; Magnussen was one of them and there could be others. There is always the chance my past may resurface,” Mary said grimly.

“Should it ever happen,” Sherlock replied solemnly, “we will face it together. I made a vow at your wedding and no matter what happens with you and John, I’ll keep it.”

Mary nodded her head slowly, her eyes fixed on his.

They didn’t talk more about the topic, because everything they had needed to say had already been said, and they let a comfortable silence fell over them.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**VII**

One Saturday morning Lestrade texted he had ‘a good one’ and Sherlock couldn’t contain his glee. He had trained the DI well, so if he said it was a good one it would really be something interesting.

Normally he would call John and go with him at Lestrade’s office, as his friend still didn’t know Mary was living at 221B. As a matter of fact, John didn’t seem to care at all about his wife and where she had gone. He knew where Mary worked now, but that was the extent of his interest.

This Saturday, however, John was at a conference in Birmingham, so Sherlock thought of Mary. Would she enjoy coming on a case with him? She had said she was ready for an ordinary life but she enjoyed when he used her as sounding board for the cases he solved without John, so perhaps she would like to have an active role in one of them.

“Mary!” he called standing on the living room threshold.

“Yes?” she answered from her bedroom.

“Lestrade is coming with a case; would you like to be present? It might be a fun one.”

There was a good degree of noise as Mary rushed down the stairs. “I began to think you would never ask!” she beamed at him. “I can’t wait to see you at work.”

Upon his arrival, Lestrade was clearly surprised to see Mary sitting in John’s chair. He knew she and John had separated and it was obvious he had questions about her presence there but he refrained from making any comments in front of her.

He sat on a chair and began to tell them about the case. “It was David Welsborough's 50th birthday. He was celebrating when he received a Skype call from his son Charlie, who was in Tibet for his sabbatical year. The kid wanted to wish happy birthday to his dad. The signal was rubbish and Charlie admitted it was because of the altitude. He asked his father to go out and take a picture of his car because of some kind of bet he had about it. David Welsborough did as he was asked but he completely lost contact with his son. There were no more Skype calls and Charlie didn’t answer his parent’s attempts to contact him via phone.”

Sherlock nodded, listening with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled against his chin.

“A week later, the local police was chasing a drunk driver, totally smashed. He turns into the drive of the Welsborough house to try and get away. Unfortunately he slammed against Charlie’s car and there was a huge explosion. The drunk guy survived, they managed to pull him out, but when they put the fire out and examined the parked car...they found a body.”

“Whose body?” Mary asked.

“Charlie Welsborough, the son.”

“What?”

“The son who was in Tibet. DNA all checks out. Night of the party, the car's empty, and a week later...the dead boy's found at the wheel.”

Sherlock laughed softly, as his mind set to work.

“Yeah, I thought it'd tickle you,” Lestrade commented.

 “Have you got a lab report?” Mary asked.

“Yeah, Charlie Welsborough's the son of a Cabinet Minister, so I'm under a lot of pressure to get a result.”

“Who cares about that? Tell me about the seats,” Sherlock opened his eyes, the thread of the mystery forming in his mind.

“The seats?” Lestrade repeated surprised.

“Yes, the car seats,” Sherlock stressed, hating to repeat himself and reaching for the lab report folder, which he opened and scanned quickly. “Made of vinyl. Two different types of vinyl present. Was it his own car?

“Yeah, not flash - he was a student,” Lestrade commented.

“Well, that's suggestive.”

“Why?”

“Vinyl's cheaper than leather,” Sherlock said as the his half-formed hypothesis became less nebulous by the moment.

“There's something else,” Mary interjected.

“Yes?” Sherlock was pleased to see she was taking an active role and checking the autopsy report.

“According to this, Charlie Welsborough had already been dead for a week.”

Sherlock grinned. The final piece of the puzzle had just found its exact collocation. He looked at Lestrade and praised him, “Oh, this was a good one.”

“Was?”

“I’ve already solved it, but it was fun.”

Both Mary and Lestrade looked at him, with a mix of admiration and frustration, and Sherlock grinned again.

“Come on,” he exclaimed , “Let’s go to tell the Welsboroughs what happened to their son.”

They moved to the stairs, but Lestrade took him by the elbow and pulled him back as Mary went below.

“What is she doing here?” the DI asked in a whisper.

“She has been living here since she left John,” Sherlock replied equally softly.

Lestrade pursed his lips. “Is this a good idea? I suppose John doesn’t know about this...What will he think should he discover his wife is living here?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied, “and frankly I don’t care. Mary needed a place to live and I had a spare bedroom, so I offered it to her. I was and am helping a friend in need, and I’m not choosing Mary over John. I’m trying to help both of them, as best as I can.”

Lestrade nodded and patted his shoulder, “I understand; it must not be easy for you, being friends with both of them. We can only hope things will work out for the best, for all those involved.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, before trotting down the stairs to join Mary.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Telling the Welsboroughs how Charlie had died was difficult. But then, there are no easy ways to tell grieving parents that their son had died while he was talking on the phone with them, not from Tibet but hidden in his car in their garden. To explain to them that what should have been a surprise appearance for his father’s birthday had turned into a tragedy no one had known had happened until a drunkard had smashed against Charlie’s parked car.

Sherlock tried to be as gentle as could, also conscious of Mary’s presence and the empathy she had for the heartbroken couple. However, even before he had finished his account of the tragic event, his attention had been drawn by something else.

A lack of symmetry in a shrine dedicated to Margaret Thatcher in David Welsborough’s library. A few questions to the politician had revealed someone had broken inside the house a few days before, took the bust and smashed it on the porch outside.

On the cab back to London, Mary asked, “What's so important about a broken bust of Margaret Thatcher?”

“Not sure, I just...intuition.”

“Seriously? You?” Lestrade teased him.

“Intuitions are not to be ignored, Giles,” Sherlock purposefully called him by a name that not only wasn’t his own but also wasn’t like it a bit. “They represent data processed too fast for the conscious mind to comprehend. What stirred my curiosity is that the intruder didn’t smash the other bust on that table nor the decorative plate; it would have been easy to do it. Instead he picked just that specific bust, took it outside and smashed it where he could see what he was doing.”

“Why?” asked Lestrade.

“Don't know. Wouldn't be fun if I knew,” Sherlock shrugged. “I can't stand it, never can. There's a loose thread in the world.”

“It doesn't mean you have to pull on it,” Mary reasoned but she was smiling.

“What kind of a life would that be?” Sherlock grinned, before turning to look out of the window as the car sped through the countryside.

 

**VIII**

 

A few days passed, and Sherlock had to content himself with boring cases and then Lestrade appeared carrying a plastic bag full of white fragments. They belonged to a Thatcher bust similar to the one owned by David Welsborough, but belonging to another person.

Even more interesting about this bust was that it was the second one smashed since Welsborough – two busts, two different owners in different parts of town – and to really make Sherlock’s day, this time the culprit had cut himself with the sharp edge of a fragment.

Grinning with excitement, Sherlock bagged the bloody fragment, put it in his pocket and rushed to fetch a cab. In the car he placed two phone calls: one to the owner of a house in Lambeth, to alert him he was coming, the other to Mary. She had taken a free day from her job to go to the dentist, so maybe she would be interested in pursuing the mystery with him, since they had been together when it had started. Mary replied with enthusiasm and they agreed to meet in Lambeth, where Sherlock would require the use of Toby, a dog he had partnered with in the past, when he was in need of a good nose for his work.

Alas this time Toby couldn’t help him much. Sherlock and Mary took the dog to Holborn, where the third bust had been smashed. Sherlock made Toby sniff the bloody fragment and, after some coaxing, the dog led him and Mary across the streets. Toby proceeded sure footed until they reached Borough Market but once there he stopped and sat down, looking around confused.

It was easy to understand way. There were several butchers in the market and meat was delivered at every time of the day. There was blood being washed away, and Toby simply couldn’t find the trail anymore.

“Clever,” Sherlock said to Mary as they watched the comings and goings in the market.

“Well, if you were wounded and you knew you were leaving a trail, this is the place to go,” Mary agreed. “There is no way a dog could discern the right smell among all this blood.”

Sherlock bent down and scratched Toby’s ears. “Never mind, Toby, better luck next time, hmm?”

As they took Toby back to his home, Sherlock told Mary about Craig, the dog’s owner. “He’s a brilliant hacker, one of the world's best. Got himself into serious trouble with the Americans a couple of years ago. He hacked into the Pentagon security system, and I managed to get him off the charge. I think it will be a walk in the park for him to retrieve the records of those busts. Maybe if we know from where they came from, we will have a clue on why someone is risking so much to smash them.”

Craid had indeed no problem finding the records of the suppliers, Gelder and Co., which revealed the busts belonged to a limited edition of only six specimens, all of them sold to people living in Greater London.

“They were made in Georgia,” Craid added as he printed out the names of the busts’ purchasers.

“Where exactly?” Sherlock asked.

“Tbilisi.”

Mary let out a gasp upon hearing that name and Sherlock turned to look at her, arching an eyebrow in inquiry.

She just shook her head and mouthed, “Later”.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Back home, Sherlock waited until they had eaten, before saying, “So, Tbilisi. I surmise from your reaction something relevant happened to you there.”

Mary crossed her arms over the table and nodded. “You could say so. Tbilisi was the reason I decided to change my life.”

“Oh. What happened?”

“Did you ever look at the AGRA stick I gave to John?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I never saw it again after that night.”

“AGRA was composed by four agents: Alex, Gabriel, Aj and myself.” Mary gaze turned inward as she thought about her past. “We were good, we worked for anyone who paid well and we were at the top of our game for years. Then it all ended, in  Tbilisi. The British Embassy was taken over, with lots of hostages. We got the call to go in and get them out. We went in but then something went wrong, really wrong. That was six years ago, but it feels like forever. I was the only one that made it out. It was then that I decided to stop.”

She fell silent, staring down at her hands. Sherlock reached out and lightly touched her wrist, making her raise her head.

“I’m sorry I upset you,” he murmured.

Mary shook her head. “It’s not your fault, you couldn’t know. Besides, it’s all in the past. However, there is something you could do to make me feel less upset.”

Sherlock straightened, “What?”

“You can help me to wash and dry the plates!” She joked, standing up and swatting his hair.

 

**IX**

 

When the following morning Lestrade informed him the bust-smasher had hit again and this time had also killed a woman in the process, Sherlock decided not to say anything about it to Mary.

Their perp had been vicious with Mrs. Harker, attacking her and then slashing her throat with an unnecessary ferocity, as the woman had been small and slight and it would have been easy to simply knock her out.

This was the reason Sherlock didn’t tell Mary of his intention to wait the killer in the house of the last Thatcher bust owner,  Jack Sandeford of Reading. Whoever this man was, he had to know that with a murder involved,  his time was now limited. Sherlock was sure he would act that night—and he didn’t want Mary to be anywhere near to the killer.

Oh, rationally he knew Mary was not a powerless woman as Mrs. Harker was, that she was a skilled professional more than able to hold her own but still, deep inside, he felt the need to protect her.

During his trip to Reading Sherlock surfed the net and smiled. When he had heard the busts had been made in Georgia, something had clicked in his mind. He remembered something DI Hopkins had told him and now he had a good idea of what the killer was looking for.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

When darkness fell, Sherlock had no trouble with Mr. Sandeford’s security system and stepped inside the house without making any noise.  He knew his man wouldn’t strike until the family had gone to bed, so he found a place where he could hide and prepared for a long wait.

Hours ticked by and finally, shortly after 11:00 PM a slight noise alerted Sherlock he was no longer alone. He quickly slid along the wall to the light switch and pushed it, the sudden light after so many hours spent in the dark briefly blinding him.

“Wouldn't it be much simpler to take out your grievances at the polling station?” he asked the surprised intruder.

The man’s reaction was blazing fast but Sherlock was ready. He knocked away the gun aimed at him and a savage fight followed. Sherlock was glad for all the practice he had the past few years because his opponent was strong, trained and savage. They ended up breaking a glass and ending in the indoor pool, where Sherlock had to use all of his strength to free himself from the man who was trying to drown him.

Once free, he returned to the living room and used the Thatcher bust to hit the intruder, an olive skinned man in his late thirties with a scar of his cheek, who fell on the floor. Unfortunately, his discarded gun was within his reach and he picked it, aiming it against Sherlock.

Sherlock gritted his teeth; he could only hope that Mr. Sanderford, awoken by the ruckus they had made, would call the police. In the meantime, however, he had to stay alive and possibly delay the intruder’s escape.

“Well,” Sherlock said as if they having a conversation, “before the police come in and spoil things, why don't we just enjoy the moment? Let me present Interpol's number one case. Too tough for them, too boring for me. The Black Pearl of the Borgias!”

He threw down the bust, which upon impact smashed in several tiny pieces. But among them, instead of the famous pearl, Sherlock spotted something he hadn’t expected.

An AGRA memory stick, just like the one Mary had given to John. Sherlock stared at it with a mix of fascination and horror as he knelt to pick it up. He knew it couldn’t be Mary’s...so there was only a possible explanation. It belonged to someone else, to another AGRA agent.

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked. “Alex, Gabriel or AJ?” The other man’s eyes widened in shock. “You were on the run after the failed infiltration of the British Embassy in Tbilisi. You didn’t want this to fall into the wrong hands, so you hid it in one of these bust, while the plaster was still soft.”

“How do you know all of this?” the man finally said with a strong foreign accent. Then his eyes widened, “You know her! You do, don't you? You know the bitch?! She betrayed me. Betrayed us all.”

“This is about Mary?” Sherlock wondered aloud, trying to wrap his mind around this new development.

“Is that what she's calling herself now, eh?” the man snarled. “ Well, tell her she's a dead woman. She's a dead woman walking.”

Sherlock heard the click of a gun being engaged as a voice asked from his right, “Why do you want to kill me, AJ?”

Mary came out from the shadow, dressed all in black as she had been in Magnussen’s office, with her gun aimed toward her former work partner.

AJ whipped around pointing his own weapon against Mary, his eyes feverish and full of rage. “Because you betrayed us!” he shouted.

“No!” Mary exclaimed, shaking her head. “I never did such a thing! I would never betray you and the others! You were my family!”

AJ growled, “You‘re lying! They captured all of us and tortured us. Alex and Gabriel died but I survived, survived by plotting my revenge against my captors and you. Because...where were you as they tore into me?!”

“That day at the embassy, I escaped,” Mary explained calmly, her gun still aimed at AJ’s head, her arm steady and her grip  firm.

“I escaped too, briefly. Long enough to hide my memory stick. I didn't want that to fall into their hands. I was loyal, you see. Loyal to my friends. But they took me, tortured me. Not for information. Not for anything except fun. And eventually, they forgot about me rotting in a cell somewhere. Six years they kept me there. Until one day I saw my chance. Oh, and I made them pay. You know, all the time I was there, I just kept picking up things. Little whispers. Laughter. Gossip. How the clever agents had been betrayed. Brought down by you!” AJ shouted and the look in his eyes suggested madness, which was unsurprising given what had suffered.

“I swear to you, AJ,” Mary pleaded him, “I didn’t betray you.”

“What did you hear, Ajay?” Sherlock intruded in their conversation. “When you were a prisoner, what exactly did you hear?”

“What did I hear? Ammo. Every day as they tore into me, "Ammo. Ammo. Ammo."

In that moment the first sound of police sirens echoed in the night; they were close and getting nearer by the moment.

“And they said it was her?” Sherlock asked, indicating Mary. “They said her name?”

“Yeah, they said it was the English woman!” AJ exclaimed.

The police cars came to screeching halt in the yard and a few instants later Lestrade voice boomed,  “Armed police, you're surrounded! Come out slowly, I want to see your hands above your head.”

AJ looked frantically around, looking for a way out, but there was none. Mary was keeping him at gunpoint, ready to fire at his slightest movement. Suddenly the red dots of sniper rifles appeared on his chest as Lestrade ordered, “Lay down your weapon. Do it now!”

AJ looked at Mary with crazed eyes. For an instant Sherlock feared he was going to shoot her, but instead he raised the gun to his temple and said, “I won’t be a prisoner again!” A moment later a shot echoed in the rooom and AJ dropped dead.

“No!” Mary screamed, as Sherlock enveloped her in his arms.

Lestrade and his men irrupted inside the house and surrounded them. The DI ordered his people to stand down their weapons and approached them.

“What happened?” he asked.

Sherlock pulled Mary closer to his chest and answered, “He was upset that whatever he was looking for wasn’t inside the bust. He said he had been betrayed, that he had been given a false information. He never said about what, but I believe he was after the Borgias pearl.”

Lestrade nodded, “That’s probable. The pearl disappeared in Georgia and the busts had been made there.” He gave a long look at them and added, “Why the hell is Mary here?”

Mary raised her face from Sherlock’s wet shirt, “My fault, Greg. I...uhm...wanted to see the end of the case. I found this address on his desk and came here...I just wanted to take a look.” Her impersonation of a scared, naive woman who hadn’t imagined she was walking into a dangerous situation was so perfect Sherlock had to bite his cheek not to grin.

Lestrade fell for it of course, and his eyes softened. “And the gun?”

“Mine, Graham,” Sherlock interjected, earning himself a scowl. “Regularly registered. I’ve no intention to be shot again. Once was enough. Alas...I misplaced it during the fight with the guy there but luckily for me Mary had the quick reflexes to pick it up.”

Lestrade nodded. “Okay, that’s enough for tonight. Now go home, I’ll come tomorrow to get your statement.”

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Back home, Sherlock took a quick, hot shower, then he joined Mary in the living room. There was a tea cup already waiting for him and he sipped it gratefully as he studied his companion.

Mary was pale and her distress at what had just happened was easy to see in her bent shoulders and head.

Sherlock cleared his throat and said, “We need to talk about it.”

Mary straightened a bit and nodded.

“Let’s start with this,” Sherlock pulled the AGRA memory stick from his dressing gown pocket. “What is it?”

“Our insurance. We all had one of them,  each of them containing our aliases, our background, everything. We could never be betrayed, because we had everything we needed to destroy the other,” Mary answered.

“All right. And what about Tbilisi and that word...Ammo?”

“It was the codeword of our employer for the Tbilisi,” Mary shook her should. “It was just another voice on the phone.”

“Would you recognize it if you heard it again?”

Mary shook her head. “I don’t think so. The reception was bad and the voice distorted; I only know it was a woman.”

“I see. So we have to conclude this ‘Ammo’ not only was the person who gave AGRA the job, but also the one who betrayed you.”

“Possibly. Or it was someone else using the same codeword,” Mary shook her head, frustrated. Then her eyes hardened and looked at seriously. “However, Sherlock, these people have already caused enough death and while a part of me would like to know who they are, another just wants to forget. I don’t want to go against them, because I’ve no idea how powerful they are. What I know is that they believe all of us AGRA agents dead, they have believed it for six years and I don’t want to shake things.”

Sherlock considered her words and replied, “But will you truly be at ease knowing that whomever did this to you is still out there, here in England?” He shook his head, “No Mary, I know you. You’ll continue to wonder and you won’t truly rest until you find the truth. You’ll make discreet investigations and maybe, one day you’ll step on the wrong toes and ‘Ammo’ will come after you.”

Mary smiled, “You know me too well.”

Sherlock just smirked back.

“So, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest to let someone else step on their toes. Someone far more powerful than you and I: Mycroft.”

“Will he help us?”

“Yes. Because ‘Ammo’ didn’t just betray AGRA; they betrayed England too and caused the death of one of our ambassadors. Mycroft is ruthless when the safety of the country is compromised. He’ll help us, I can guarantee it,” Sherlock concluded with cold look.

 

**X**

 

The following morning Sherlock went to see Mycroft at his Diogenes Club office. He found his brother sitting with his feet on the desk, meaning he was in a good mood, even if his greeting, as usual, pointed to a different direction.

“Hello brother dear, to what do I owe the dubious pleasure of your visit?”

Sherlock sat in front of him and raised his feet on the desk, imitating his position. “Are you aware of what happened in Reading yesterday night?”

“Of course. I always know when you’re involved in some criminal event. I also know Mrs. Watson was with you. You seem to have acquired a new sidekick.”

“Oh, drop the fake surprised tone, Mycroft. You’re well aware she has been living with me for the past five months.”

“’Living with me?’ What a curious choice of words,” Mycroft smirked.

Sherlock fulminated him with a glare, “She needed a place to live, I had a spare room. That’s all.”

“Then why are you being so defensive? Maybe because you’ve been spotted putting an arm over her shoulders and pulling her close?” Mycroft continued with a sort of perverse glee. “It was at Southgate Station, if I remember correctly.”

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock exploded. “It was the anniversary of Rosie’s death and we were going to the cemetery! Don’t make it sounds as if we are doing something...inconvenient.”

“If you say so...but the way you’re reacting makes me wonder. And speaking of reactions, how is John taking this new development?”

Mycroft had that peculiar smile that made Sherlock desire to punch him. “John doesn’t know, mostly because he never bothered to discover where his wife is now living.”

“Well, I hope for your sake you are right. Dr. Watson has quite a temper and I would hate to see you hurt again. You should have followed my advice and not get involved: this marriage and your insensate devotion has only caused you grief.”

Sherlock looked for a snarky retort but then he remembered Mary’s words about Mycroft crying as the plane took off, and decided against it. His brother was just looking after him.

“I would like to say I will keep your advice in mind,” he said calmly, but right now it’s a bit difficult.”

“Why?” Mycroft asked.

“What do you know about AGRA?”

“Agra? A city on the banks of the river Yamuna in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh, India. It is 378km west of the state capital, Lucknow,” came the prompt answer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What are you, Wikipedia? AGRA is an acronym. Team of agents, the best. But you know all that.”

“Of course I do. Go on.”

“Well,  it turned out that the guy who went around smashing Margaret Thatcher’s busts was one of them.”

“The man who killed himself yesterday night?”

“Yes. He was looking  for Mary, also one of the AGRA team.”

“Indeed? Well, that's news to me,” Mycroft commented, but Sherlock strongly doubted it was so.

“AGRA always worked for the highest bidder, I thought that might include you.”

“Me?”

“I mean the British government, or whatever government you're currently propping up.”

Mycroft nodded.  “AGRA were very reliable. Then came the Tbilisi incident. They were sent in to free the hostages but it all went horribly wrong. And that was that, we stopped using freelancers.”

“Your initiative?”

“My initiative. Freelancers are too woolly, too messy. I don't like loose ends. Not on my watch.”

“Then you will be interested to know this: the raid in the Tbilisi embassy went wrong because someone betrayed AGRA. AJ – the dead man in Reading – was looking for Mary because after being captured he heard from his captors an ‘English woman’ had betrayed them. He thought it was Mary, but it wasn’t so.”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft threw him a piercing gaze.

“Absolutely.” Sherlock said, holding his brother’s gaze. “Someone else betrayed them, someone who wanted to see the ambassador’s rescue fail. And there was something else, a codeword: ‘Ammo’.”

“Ammo?”

“Yes, like ammunition, or so Mary thinks. It was used when AGRA were given the task to get inside the embassy, but it was also repeated by AJ’s captors.”

“So you think the same person who gave AGRA the assignment, was also the one who betrayed them?”

Mycroft lowered his feet and bent forward on his desk. “I’ll do some digging, but I can’t promise anything. Six years ago I was...involved in something else, something you don’t need to know about.”

“Of course,” Sherlock nodded, to please his brother and also because he didn’t really care what Mycroft dirtied his hand with. He put his feet down and stood up, preparing to leave, but Mycroft stopped him by raising a hand.

“This is the second time Mary’s past resurfaces – yes, of course I know why you shot Magnussen—and it might not be the last one.”

“I know.”

“What are you planning to do about it? You think you can go on saving her forever?”

“Of course,” Sherlock confirmed.

“Is that sentiment talking?”

“No, it's me.”

“Difficult to tell the difference since you returned from your ‘death’. I hoped you had learned your lesson with Magnussen, but I’m beginning to think it might be a vain hope.”

Sherlock looked at his brother dead-serious, “I made a vow at their wedding. I promised to always be there for all of them—and I’ll keep my promise.

“I see you’re determined and nothing will change your mind. It’s your right, of course. But remember this, brother mine, agents like Mary tend not to reach retirement age. They get retired in a pretty permanent sort of way.”

“Not on my watch,” Sherlock vowed before leaving the office.

 

**XI**

 

It was Friday evening and there was nothing interesting on telly—at least for Sherlock. Mary was finding that romantic BBC drivel on screen much of her liking.  However he wasn’t irritated; he was instead enjoying the novel experience of using her thighs as a pillow as he laid on the couch lost in thought. It had been Mary to suggest it, as she preferred to watch the telly sitting on the couch rather than in the armchair. Sherlock had agreed to try and, after a few minutes in which he had been as stiff as a board with tension, he had gradually relaxed and got comfortable.

He was about to sink in his mind palace and analyze again everything he knew about the Tbilisi incident and ‘ammo’, when the downstairs door was slammed open.

They looked at each other and jumped up, both of them knowing who was climbing the stairs with such heavy steps.

John entered the room, eyes blazing, nostrils flaring and smelling of alcohol.

“So Donovan was right! I couldn’t believe it when she said you were taking _her_ on cases,” he snarled, saying ‘her’ as if it was a vile word.  He took in the comfortable sweats Mary was wearing, her lack of makeup and continued, “But now I see it’s much more than that! Tell me, for how long has this going on? I bet this is the reason you began to meet me downstairs or straight on crime scenes. You didn’t want me to see she lives here now!”

Sherlock grew rigid with tension and irritation, “I suggest you calm down, John. We can talk about this as civil people.”

“I don’t want to be civil! Not when I discover my best friend prefers my assassin of a wife over myself!”

“That’s not true, John,” Mary interjected with a calm.

“Shut up!,” John shouted as he focused on Sherlock. “How could you? She shot you, for God’s sake! She killed my child! How can you allow her to be here?!”

“Because she is my friend and in contrast to you, she accepted my offer of help,” Sherlock kept his voice low and businesslike.

John’s eyes narrowed as he took a menacing step forward, “So now it’s my fault?!”

Sherlock nodded sadly. “Yes. You’re the one cheating, not Mary.”

“Because I couldn’t bear to be near her after she killed my child!” John roared, looking at Mary with venom.  She took a step back, as if afraid.

Sherlock moved to shield her from John, “Bollocks. You know you’re lying and I know it too. You started cheating on Mary on 2nd February 2015, when you sent the first text to Miss Eliza Tipton. More importantly I know that on 3rd March 2015, when Mary fell from the escalator in the Tube station, you were at Titpon’s house.”

“What?” Mary asked, as understanding dawned on her face, just as John hissed, “How the hell do you know!?”

“I checked your phone records and GPS. I’ve proof of everything I said, including the fact you didn’t pick up any of Mary eleven calls while you were ‘busy’ with Miss Tipton. By doing so you forced Mary to take the Tube to go to her OB/GYN appointment – as there was a bus and taxi strike that day – and to be on that escalator.”  Sherlock’s voice was cold and cutting as a knife. “Had you answered to just one of those calls, none of this would have happened—and you know it. You know it’s your fault Rosie died, but you can’t accept the blame. It’s easier to turn the anger you feel against yourself toward other people...Tell me John, when did you become such a coward?”

John snarled and raised his fist, aiming at Sherlock’s face. He avoided the punch as Mary shouted, “No! Stop!” He then launched at  John, fighting with him until he was able to grab his arm, twisting it behind his back. John cried out in pain and Sherlock used that momentum to push the other man against the wall and use his body to keep him trapped there. John struggled to get free, but Sherlock held tight, bearing the kicks and the elbow jabs, until, finally his friend stopped fighting.

John went limp, forehead pressed against the wall and panting. Sherlock loosened his grip on his arm and took a cautious step back, ready to spring in action if John was again violent. But it was an unnecessary precaution, because John began to cry. Harsh, broken sobs that filled the room, as Sherlock and Mary watched with a mixture of anger and compassion.

Finally – not even Sherlock could say how much time had elapsed – John composed him himself. He straightened his shoulders and used his sleeve to brush his eyes and nose. He turned around to face Mary and Sherlock and said, his voice low and rough with emotion, “You are right. It’s all my fault and it has been eating at me since it happened. But I don’t know how to deal with the knowledge that I caused the death of my child.”

Mary stepped forward and said kindly, looking in her husband’s red rimmed eyes, “John, we cannot help you because you don’t want help from others. You need to find a way to help yourself. It won’t be easy, but you can do it. I know it, because I know you are a good man, a brave man who can overcome everything if he just set himself to do it.”

John just lowered his head, saying nothing. Sherlock put a gentle hand on his shoulder and murmured, “Come John, it’s time you go home. I’ll fetch a taxi for you.”

A few moments later, after he had put John on a cab and  given the address – plus the money for the run- to the driver, Sherlock returned upstairs to find Mary weeping curled on the couch.

“Mary!” he exclaimed, kneeling in front of her. “I’m sorry you had to listen to that, but John needed to hear the truth. He had to hear it and be shaken by it. It was the only way to make him face his problem.”

Mary raised her face from her folded arms and smiled weakly at him. “This isn’t pain, Sherlock. This is...catharsis. John had repeated I had killed Rosie so many times I had begun to believe it...Now I know I’m not responsible for what happened. It was something I couldn’t prevent...and even if I’ll always mourn Rosie’s death, her loss has just become a little more bearable.”

“Oh,” Sherlock commented with a small grin, “So this is a good kind of tears.”

Mary smiled brightly, “You can say that,” she whispered, before pulling him in a strong, long embrace.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

One late afternoon Sherlock returned home from Bart’s to find Mary sitting pensive in the living room.

“What is it?” he asked concerned, “Something happened to John?”

“How do you know I’m thinking of him?” Mary commented, surprised.

“Because you are playing with your wedding band. It wasn’t a difficult leap.”

Mary smiled. “Right, I should have guessed it. John and I just had a long phone call. He told me he has taken a leave of absence from work to check himself into a rehab clinic in Surrey. He wants to get rid of his problem with alcohol and anger management.”

Sherlock looked down at her with relieved eyes. “That’s good news.”

“Indeed.” Mary paused for a moment, staring in front of her, then continued, “He also told me that he hopes that, when he is sober, we can try again.”

“Oh.” Sherlock didn’t know how to react to that. Logically he should be happy John was finally taking a step to save his marriage after not caring about its fate for so long. Yet, he just felt taken aback, unprepared for it.

“He said he has been an inconsiderate idiot, but that he still loves me. He asked me to give him a second chance.”

Sherlock looked around the living room, where Mary’s things – books, a throw pillow, a tea cup, two potted plants - were mingled with his, and thought about how alive the flat was with just her mere presence. It would be so hard to return to live alone...He cleared his voice and added, “You said yes, of course.”

“No. I said no.”

He looked down at her, shocked by her resolute tone. “No? I thought this was exactly what you wanted, for John to admit he had a problem, fix it and try again.”

Mary smiled weakly. “No, for once you are wrong, Sherlock. During these past months, even before I moved out, I had time to think about John and me and about our marriage. I came to several conclusions that while not being pleasurable are the truth. Do you want to listen to them?”

Sherlock nodded, and sat down on the coffee table to be at her eye level.

“First of all, I’m not really sure if John is or was really in love with me or rather in love with the idea of being in love. He thought he craved the normality of married life but when he got it, he became restless. You said so yourself: he is a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den, and that happened while you were still here. But even if he loves me, the truth is that I stopped loving him long.”

“I see,” Sherlock murmured.

“Really? It took me a while to realise what went wrong, but now I know. We married too soon, when we still knew too little about the other. When I met John, he was still grieving for you, Sherlock. For almost two years you had been his anchor as he tried to leave behind eighteen years of military service to fit again into a civilian life—a life he wasn’t ready for. He depended on you and when you jumped, he found himself adrift. When he found me I became his new, although different, anchor. But when you came back – no, Sherlock, I’m not saying it’s your fault, I’m just stating a fact- John returned to be the man who he was before I met him. I liked that John, the man who loved danger and adventure, and I hoped that man could, in time, accept all of me, including my past life. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Sherlock understood quite well Mary’s need to be accepted for who and what she was.

“Then Magnussen appeared and it all went wrong. John and I somehow recovered from it – mostly thanks to your efforts – but then he cheated. I began to wonder if we were really made for each other, if what we wanted now was the same thing we wanted when we fell in love. Then Rosie died and everything changed again.”

Mary took a deep breath and Sherlock slightly brushed her hand, to encourage her to go on.

“I must tell you that when you came to visit us after your return...I had already decided to leave John. Problem was that I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to build myself a new life. I hadn’t the strength to start again in another place and here, I had no family or real friends. Then you returned and when I saw you on the street that day, when I saw the way you were looking at me, I realised I wasn’t alone. That’s why I came here that night.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’m glad you came here. I’m happy to have been able to help you a little and I hope you know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you wish.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “A ‘little’? Sherlock, you have been my anchor! I have no idea of where I would be now without your steadfast support. And the best thing is that you know the whole me and don’t recoil from it. That’s why I love to stay here and I don’t wish to leave, because you have no idea what a wonderful thing it is to be completely accepted.”

Sherlock shook his head, “You’re wrong. I know.”

Mary smiled at him, eyes bright with affection and with something else...something he couldn’t name.

After a while he broke their silence and asked softly, “How did John react to your answer?”

“He wasn’t happy, but I think he understood. I told him I’ll apply for divorce tomorrow and he said he won’t oppose it. I explained to him that I told him now because I didn’t want him to have the mistaken idea he was getting clean with a chance to get me back. I told him he needs to get clean for himself, because he is a good man and deserves to find a person who will love all of him—but that person can’t be me.” Speaking so, Mary stood up and went to the kitchen to start their dinner.

Sherlock remained sitting, musing on what he had heard and on how relieved he felt because Mary had no intention to leave.


	4. Chapter 4

**XII**

 

Sherlock fully admitted he wasn’t a tidy person; the only order that mattered was the one in his mind palace. Besides, he always knew where his things were. That is, unless a well-meaning but meddlesome landlady decided to take advantage of his absence to come in his flat and do some ‘tidying up’.  Then he could no longer find things and had to tear the room apart to find what he looked for.

 _As result_ , Sherlock muttered to himself as he knelt beneath the table, _this room looks even worse than before_. Why couldn’t Mrs. Hudson realise it and leave his organized chaos alone?

It was because of this that an old Latin dictionary he didn’t even remember he owned came to his hands. He opened it, idly browsing the pages and froze when his eyes fell on a word and its English meaning.

Was it possible?

He stared at the page, almost unblinking as thought crossed his mind. _It has to be,_ Sherlock thought, _she is in the position of doing something like this._

Quickly, he pulled out his phone and called his brother.

“I have a briefing in two minutes, Sherlock, so be quick,” Mycroft said in lieu of a greeting.

“Did you ever find who Ammo was?”

“No—because there has never been someone in these offices with that code name. But you already know that.”

“What if the word wasn’t ammo but something else? How's your Latin, brother dear?

“My Latin? Sherlock, I’ve no time for this.”

“Amo, amas, amat...”

“I love, you love, he loves. What...?” Mycroft sounded exasperated. Sherlock enjoyed when his brother didn’t realize at once what he meant-- it meant he wasn’t really that smart.

“Not "Ammo" as in ammunition, but "Amo", meaning?”

This time Mycroft understood and his voice became as cold as ice when he said, “You'd better be right, Sherlock.”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

Sherlock ended the call and rushed to dress and catch a cab.

When he arrived at the SIS building, it was in time to see Lady Smallwood and her secretary being led away by two guards as Mycroft looked on with a tense expression.

By the time Sherlock passed all the security checks and was allowed inside the detention area of the building, Lady Smallwood’s interrogation was ongoing. Sherlock entered a deserted room adjacent to the one she and Mycroft were, and observed the proceedings through the one way mirror.

“Six years ago you held the brief for Foreign Operations, code name Love,” Mycroft said.

“And you're basing all this on a code name?” exclaimed Lady Smallwood. “On a whispered voice on the telephone? Come on, Mycroft.”

“You were the conduit for AGRA. Every assignment, every detail they got from you,” Mycroft insisted.

“It was my job.”

“Then there was the Tbilisi incident. AGRA went in.”

“Yes.”

“And they were betrayed.”

“Not by me. Mycroft, we have known each other a long time. I promise you, I haven't the foggiest idea what all this is about. You wound up AGRA and all the other freelancers. I haven't done any of the things you're accusing me of. Not one. Not. One.”

A shiver ran along Sherlock’s back. Lady Smallwood had been sincere. He knew the truth when he saw it and there was no doubt here. He had been wrong and Mycroft was going to make him pay for it.

He left the building before his brother could stop him and walked until he reached the closest bridge. He stopped there and looked at the Thames as he mentally recapped all he knew about AGRA, Tbilisi and how MI6 worked.

An image surface in his mind: the meeting after his return from Chechnya... Four codenames quoted for the records, but _five_ people attending.

A fifth person reputed not important enough to have a codename but still allowed inside a top-secret meeting.

A person who hadn’t uttered a word but who had listened to everything that had been said.

A person unnoticed, yet vigilant.

A person who worked at close contact with Lady Smallwood. Trusted but seldom taken in consideration.

A kind looking, unassuming woman sitting in the background or walking a few steps behind her boss.

Her secretary.

Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat and walked back toward the SIS building. He needed some information, he had a some planning to do and a text to send. This time he wouldn’t involve Mycroft until the very end, but he was pretty sure Mary would be interested in seeing who was responsible for AGRA’s demise.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Sherlock entered the London Aquarium shortly before it started closing down. He barely looked at the tanks as he looked for the person he had come to see: Vivian Norbury, Lady Smallwood’s secretary and England traitor.

“Your office said I'd find you here,” he said, announcing his presence when he finally found her sitting on bench in front of the shark tank.

 “This was always my favourite spot for agents to meet,” she replied without turning, her voice calm and soft. “We're like them. Ghostly, living in the shadows.”

“Predatory?” Sherlock interjected, looking at sharks.

“Well, it depends which side you're on. Also, we have to keep moving or we die.”

“Nice location for the final act,” Sherlock admitted. “Couldn't have chosen it better myself. But then I never could resist a touch of the dramatic.”

“I just come here to look at the fish,” Norbury said, finally turning to face him. “I knew this would happen one day. It's like that old story.

“I really am a very busy man,” he scoffed, “Would you mind cutting to the chase?”

“You're very sure of yourself, aren't you?”

“With good reason.” Sherlock idly wondered where Mary was. Had the attendants at the entry stopped her?

“There was once a merchant, in a famous market in Baghdad,” Norbury began, undeterred, as if they were just making conversation.

Sherlock knew the story she was referring to. The story of a man that, while trying to outrun Death ended up straight into its grip. There were numerous versions of it, an Italian singer had even written a song about it, but Sherlock wasn’t a fan of the concept. “I really have never liked this story.”

“I'm just like the merchant in the story, I thought I could out-run the inevitable. I've always been looking over my shoulder, always expecting to see the grim figure of-”

“Death,” that word and the sound of running steps announced Mary’s arrival, slightly out of brief and flushed with excitement.

“Hello Mary,” he greeted her, “Let me introduce Ammo.”

Mary looked surprised at the unassuming woman in front of her. It seemed impossible such a gentle looking old lady could be a ruthless killer who had sent AGRA and all the hostages to their death with just a single phone call.

“Why did you betray us?” Mary asked.

“Why does anyone do anything?” Norbury answered, still as calm and unconcerned as if they were talking about the weather.

“Let me guess, selling secrets?” Sherlock interjected with irony.

“Well, it would be churlish to refuse. Worked very well for a few years. I bought a nice cottage in Cornwall on the back of it. But...” Norbury paused for a moment, as if she was making sure her audience was listening, “The ambassador in Tbilisi found out. I thought I'd had it. Then she was taken hostage in that coup. I couldn't believe my luck! That bought me a little time.”

“But then you found out your boss had sent AGRA in,” Sherlock continued for her.

“Very handy. They were always such reliable killers.”

“What you didn't know, Mary, was that this one also tipped off the hostage-takers,” he explained to his friend, who was listening with increasing horror.

“Lady Smallwood gave the order. But I sent another one to the terrorists, with a nice little clue about her code name, should anyone have an enquiring mind. Seemed to do the trick.” Norbury looked so self-satisfied, so proud, as if the blood of the ambassador, of the embassy staff and AGRA didn’t stain her hands.

“And you thought your troubles were over,” Mary completed for her, finally understanding she and her friend had just been pawns in a far bigger game.

“I was tired,” Norbury continued, sitting back on the bench, as the demure woman everyone thought she was. “Tired of the mess of it all. I just wanted some peace, some clarity. The hostages were killed. AGRA too. Or so I thought.” She looked pointedly at Mary, who held her gaze. “My secret was safe. But... apparently not. Just a little peace. That's all you wanted too, wasn't it? A family? Home? Really, I understand.” Her voice had taken a persuading tone, as if she was trying to convince Mary they were similar, both looking for the same thing.  “So, just let me get out of here, right? Let me just walk away. I'll vanish, I'll go forever. What do you say?”

“After what you did?!” Mary roared with fury, moving forward, ready to strangle the other woman

“Mary, no!” Sheerlock shouted, grabbing her by the arm as Norbury pulled a gun out of her purse.

“I was never a field agent. I always thought I'd be rather good,” she said, pointing the gun at them.

“Well, you handled the operation in Tbilisi very well,” Sherlock conceded. Norbury took it as a compliment until he added. “For a secretary.”

“What?”

“It can't have been easy all those years, sitting in the back, keeping your mouth shut when you knew you were cleverer than most of the people in the room.”

“I didn't do this out of jealousy,” Norbury said, sounding dismissive but Sherlock had seen the small crack in her calm facade and decided it could be useful to drive a wedge in it.

“No? Same old drudge, day in, day out. Never getting out there where all the excitement was. Just back to your little flat on Wigmore Street.  They've taken up the pavement outside the post office there. The local clay on your shoes is very distinctive. Yes, your little flat.”

“How do you know?” Norbury looked surprised at him.

“Well, on your salary, it would have to be modest, and you spent all the money on that cottage, didn't you? And what are you, widowed or divorced? Wedding ring is at least 30 years old and you've moved it to another finger. That means you're sentimentally attached to it, but you're not still married. I favour widowed, given the number of cats you share your life with.”

“Sherlock...” Mary said at his side, but he ignored her. He was on a roll, his eyes discovering details and his mind unravelling facts so quickly his mouth could barely keep up with them.

“Two Burmese and a Tortoiseshell, judging by the cat hairs on your cardigan. A divorcee is more likely to look for a new partner,a widow to fill the void left by her dead husband.”

“Sherlock, don't,” Mary uttered more urgently, but he simply couldn’t stop.

“Pets do that, or so I'm told. There's clearly no-one new in your life, or you wouldn't be spending your Friday nights in an aquarium.That accounts for the drink problem too, the slight tremor in your hand, the red wine stain ghosting your top lip. So, yes, I'd say jealousy. To prove how good you are. To make up for the inadequacies of your... little life.”

Sherlock finally took a breath, and looked surprised as Mycroft, Lestrade and two other policemen  joined them. He frowned for a moment. Why there they there? Then he understood, Mary must have alerted them.

“Well, Mrs Norbury,” Mycroft said impassibly, “I must admit this is unexpected.”

“Vivian Norbury, who out-smarted them all. All except Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said with a heady rush of triumph. He had done it. Mary was safe now. He reached out with his hand, silently telling Norbury to give him the gun. “There's no way out.”

“So it would seem. You've seen right through me, Mr Holmes,” Norbury commented, still gripping her gun, now pointed straight at him.

“It's what I do.”

“Maybe I can still surprise you.”

Sherlock understood in that moment that Norbury was like a wounded animal and would lash out. She had been discovered, she had no way out, so why she should refrain from making him pay for bringing her down?

His instinct screamed him to act before she completed her line and he did so, starting to move aside seconds before she pulled the trigger. As result he lost his balance when Mary pushed him and he fell, dragging her down with him.

He frantically touched her body, dreading to find blood, but then she raised her head from his chest and frowning down at him she muttered, “The next time I tell you to shut up, do it!”

A huge wave of relief swept over him and he relaxed against the floor, hugging Mary close to him. He was barely aware of  Lestrade disarming and cuffing Norbury; all that mattered  was the warm, breathing body atop him. He had never been as terrified as in those few seconds he had thought she had been hit.

His heart instead of calming down now the danger was over, started beating ever faster when he realized what Mary had just done. She had jumped in front of the gun to protect him. She would have been hit if Sherlock hadn't of dragged her down with him, and there was a strong chance she would have been killed. Had it happened, it would have been his fault, because he hadn’t calculated the effect his words would have had on Norbury. It wasn’t the first time his lack of filter when deducing caused him trouble, but he vowed this would be the last.

As Mary had said, danger was fun, but it couldn’t be outrun forever. He had to learn to be more prudent, for himself and for Mary, because he couldn’t bear the thought of her dying for him nor the idea of leaving her alone.

“The aquarium needs to close down. They need to repair this bullet hole in the wall before tomorrow opening,” Mycroft’s voice intruded into his musings and Sherlock wondered for how long they had remained on the ground, unmoving but for their breathing.

He had almost forgotten his brother was there, but now that he had been reminded of his presence, Sherlock didn’t want to bear his scrutiny a moment longer. God only knew what kind of things he had deducted from their behaviour.

“Let me up,” he whispered at Mary and she rolled away from him and gracefully rose to her feet. For a moment Sherlock mourned the loss of her warmth and weight atop of him,  but pushed away the thought and rose. He brushed his coat, straightened its collar and without looking at his brother turned toward Mary, “Ready to go home?”

“Yes,” she grinned.

 

They left without another world, walking side by side along the deserted corridors.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Once they arrived at Baker Street, they washed, changed clothes and ordered take away from the nearby Chinese restaurant.

Mary took one of her DVDs and asked, “Do you mind if we watch a musical? I know you don’t like these kind of movies, but this evening I need something relaxing and this is one of my favourites.”

Mouth full of noodles, Sherlock waved her concerns away and soon she joined him on the couch, beginning to eat as the first images of “Moulin Rouge” flashed on screen.

Sherlock found himself engaged by the story, possibly because the music wasn’t so bad, possibly because he too needed to relax after the stressful day he had.

They didn’t talk or exchange comments as they watched the movie, until a scene in which an idealistic, romantic poet tried to convince an all-business courtesan to return his feelings.

Mary took her eyes away from the screen and shifting on the couch, turned to face him.

“Sherlock?” she began, her voice very soft but serious. “May I ask you a personal question?”

He looked at her and nodded. “Of course,” he answered, curious about what she wished to know. His curiosity increased as Mary seemed to struggle to find the words to express herself. It was very rare for her to remain wordless, and Sherlock felt the hair on his nape stand up in alarm. Suddenly, he had a bad feeling about the whole situation.

Finally Mary managed to formulate her question, making his eyes widen in surprise. “Why do you despise emotions?” 

“Because they compromise my ability to see the truth,” he answered almost on autopilot, but even as he did so, Sherlock realized it wasn’t true. 

Mary, perceptive as usual, sensed it, “You don’t look too convinced.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and said, very softly, as if he was talking with himself. “Mycroft has always told me that caring is not an advantage. I followed his advice for many years, believing it a sound one. However, in the past few years, I’ve begun to question the validity of shunning all emotions, not to mention the fact I don’t really believe it’s truly possible to do so. Emotions are a part of me – and we both know that even my preaching brother isn’t immune to them – and they aren’t completely bad. They can be useful when they go side by side with logic. The trick is to not let them overwhelm me, and I admit I’m still working on it.” 

Mary smiled, “I understand and, for what it’s worth, I believe it’s also a very mature look at life, much better than ‘caring is not an advantage’.”

“I’ll tell Mycroft the next time he scorns me about sentiment.”

They returned to watching the movie, but it was clear neither of them was focusing on the story. Sherlock was acutely aware of Mary’s presence at his side; he knew something was bothering her, but he couldn’t deduce what it was. He was about to ask her what was wrong, when Mary spoke again.

 “Sherlock?”

 “Yes?”

 “Have you ever been in love?”

This time he couldn’t prevent his mouth from falling open in stupor. Of all the questions she could ask… and why was she now so interested in such things?

Sherlock cleared his throat and was about to answer no, that he didn’t understand romantic love nor had interest in it when something stopped him.

It was the sudden, overwhelming realization he was about to say a lie.

The blindness in his heart and mind fell away as he realized the real nature of his feelings for the beautiful woman sitting silent at his side.

It wasn’t friendship what he felt for her.

It wasn’t the brotherly love he felt for Molly.

What he felt was completely different, so different he hadn’t even understood how much until that moment. 

It was incredible.

It was amazing.

It was terrifying.

Sherlock felt the irrational impulse to bolt from the couch and run away, but he knew it would be useless, for he couldn’t escape what he carried in his heart.

“Sherlock?”  Mary’s voice was full of concern as she hesitantly touched his arm.

He raised his scared eyes and met her own stricken gaze.

He didn’t speak and she didn’t ask more questions, as they looked at each other and everything seemed to fall in place. He now knew why she had questioned him, while she was aware of why he couldn’t answer her with words. 

They kept on staring at each other, their hearts pounding in their chests, their breathing hurried, their faces slowly leaning closer until their lips touched.

Sherlock was startled by the gentle contact, it was like being snapped out of the trance-like state he had fallen into. He pulled his head back, but Mary didn’t let him retreat. Her delicate yet strong hands rose to cup his face as she pressed her soft, demanding lips against his own.

Sherlock’s mind was a whirl of confusion, but his body seemed to know what it had to do. His lips parted without volition and Mary’s tongue entered his mouth, tasting and discovering him.

He moaned, trying to pull back and this time she let him go, but not completely, for her lips started to cover his face and neck with tiny, affectionate kisses and light nips. 

Sherlock wanted to tell her to stop, wanted to move away and break the hold she had on him, but he couldn’t. His body wasn’t obeying him as it relished those unknown touches and sensations.

Mary didn’t appear to be put off by his passivity; on the contrary, she seemed to exactly know why he was behaving like this.

“I know it looks so sudden Sherlock,” she whispered against his neck as her hands caressed his shoulders and back, perhaps trying to relax him, “but I love you. I think I began loving you the Sunday I saw you talk to Rosie’s grave.”

She hugged him, as Sherlock shook his head to clear his mind. “You don’t understand,” he finally managed to say with a voice he barely recognized as his own. “We cannot do this. It’s wrong. John...”

“John knows it. I told him when I explained to him why there wouldn’t be a second chance for us. He said he understood and sort of gave me his blessing.”

Mary resumed kissing his neck as her maddening hands slid along his flanks to slip beneath the layers of his clothes to caress the skin of his chest and brush against a nipple.

“Mary!” Sherlock cried out as his body almost surged up from the couch in shock and pleasure.

“Yes, darling? Tell me what you like.”

Her sultry voice caused a shiver to run along his spine and he used all of his considerable will power to bring his body and emotions under control. Sherlock raised his hands and gripped her wrists, pulling them away from his chest and keeping her at bay.

“Mary,” he said, in the firmest tone he could muster, “You’ve got to stop. I don’t know how long I can go on. My control is slipping.”

Mary smiled wickedly, “Well, that’s the point of seduction. Let it go, Sherlock. I know you love me…” she paused for a moment, watching him closely and he nodded, seeing no point in denying the truth. “Let me show you how I feel—and show me the passion I know you’re capable of.” She freed one of her hands and lowered it, trailing it along his thigh, before pressing it gently against his crotch and swollen manhood.

Sherlock moaned as if in agony.

Away. He had to go away before it was too late.

His body was becoming hungrier and more desperate for the touches it had never felt and he knew he wouldn’t resist much longer the urges she was stirring in him—but it was something he would not, could not let happen. Not before he had time to understand what was going with him.

With a supreme effort, Sherlock removed her hands from his body, stood up and stepped back, putting some distance between them.

Mary looked up at him, confusion and fear of rejection duelling in her gaze.

“I can’t do it Mary,” he said urgently, his breathing hurried. “Please, understand me, I need time...I need to think...about what this means...I feel like my body is betraying me...like I’m out of control and I don’t like it...”

Mary’s eyes widened in understanding as she realized what he had said in between the lines. “You mean…you mean you’ve never been with a woman?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’ve never been with anyone.”

Mary lowered her head, and when she raised it again, contrition had replaced passion on her face.

She stood up and stepped closer to him, murmuring softly, “I’m sorry Sherlock. I didn’t imagine this and I won’t touch you again if you don’t want. Please forgive me, I-”

She never completed the line for her feet got tangled in the take away boxes they had dropped on the floor and she tripped over. Mary fell forward against Sherlock, whose reflexes, for once, weren’t quick enough to catch her. She slid down along his waist and when her breasts pressed against his pelvis, Sherlock’s over-stimulated body broke down, and he climaxed with a surprised and agonized cry.

He fell to his knees, breathing hard, shaken to his core.

Mary’s arms surrounded him and he felt the desire to lower his head on her shoulder and just rest, but the cooling, damp spot in his clothing reminded him what had just happened.

Shame assaulted him, making him inwardly cringe.

What had he done?

He had lost his control in the basest of ways in front of one of the most important persons in his life.

“Sherlock…” Mary began, but he pulled away from her, shaking his head and begging her with his eyes to say nothing.

She understood, and the only noise Sherlock could hear as he rose to his feet and walked staggering out of the flat was the sound of his hurried, laboured breath.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Regent Park was enveloped by darkness and silence. The sky was clouded and just a shaft of moonlight lightened the path between bushes and trees.

It was peaceful and Sherlock hoped he would help to regain his control and allow him to understand what had happened only forty minutes before.

He sat on the a bench and tried to clear his thoughts, but Mary intruded. Mary, with her quick mind, sunny laugh, bright blue eyes and the smooth skin that begged to be stroked and caressed.

Even now Sherlock’s hands twitched with the desire to touch her, and he put them inside the pockets of his coat, resolutely ignoring their shaking.

He was in love with Mary.

No, being _in_ love presupposed the possibility one could fall _out_ of love, but that wasn’t Sherlock’s case.

He loved Mary with all the depth and the intent of a man who had always committed everything he was in what he believed in.

Had it been just a passing infatuation, as it had been with Irene Adler, Sherlock would haven’t been troubled by it. Physical attraction was something he could control well, but it had been different with Mary.

The alarm bells had never rung and by the time he had become aware of his feelings, it was already late, too late.

In retrospect, Sherlock believed it had started the night when they had met for the first time, when Mary had said he would talk John around. His friend had almost smashed his nose, Sherlock was bleeding and Mary, instead of being angry because he had stopped John from proposing, had smiled at him and offered her help.

Sherlock had been taken aback by her reaction. He wasn’t used to people liking him, especially people who had several reasons to dislike him.

In the following months they had became friends, a friendship based on reciprocal liking and understanding, and not just on the fact they were both parts of John Watson’s life.

Then had come the night with Magnussen, the shock of finding Mary there with a gun and the excruciating pain of the shot. The terrible feeling of having been betrayed by someone he trusted.

And yet, not even that had destroyed the liking he felt for Mary. Once he had understood why she had acted - brushing away all the emotions to rationally look at the events from her point of view—he had found it easy to forgive her, and lock the episode away as something that wouldn’t happen again. Because now Mary knew she was no longer alone and that Sherlock wasn’t shocked by her past.

Killing Magnussen for her, John and their child had been an easy choice to make, especially if weighed against the living hell their lives would become if that man stayed alive.

When he had returned home and learned of Mary and John’s tragedy, Sherlock had tried his best to help both of them, believing that his ultimate goal was to see them return to be a happy couple.

He had never guessed his motivation had been a different, more selfish one. Not even when he had been so relieved to hear Mary had left John for good.

No, Sherlock thought shaking his head, he had never seen it coming, probably because he had always been too concentrated on other matters, on more important things, to pay attention to what was happening to him, to how Mary was slowly sliding under his skin.

Not until earlier that night, when every piece of the puzzle had fallen in place.

He wondered if the terror he had felt when he had believed Vivian Norbury had shot Mary had acted as catalyst for his buried feelings.

More importantly, he wondered what should he do. Sooner or later he would have to return home and face Mary.

As if on cue, he heard steps coming closer and a moment later the object of his musings appeared. Mary was wearing her red coat, hastily thrown over the old shirt and trousers she had been wearing at home.

“How did you find me?” he asked as she sat down at the other side of the bench.

“I might have asked for your brother’s help,” she answered, looking at him sideway. “I was worried about you.”

“And he helped you?”

“Yes. He muttered something like ‘I should have seen it coming’ then told me where to find you. He also said to tell you it’s illegal to pick the lock of a Royal Park.”

Sherlock smirked and kept on looking in front of him.

Mary broke the silence after a while, “Why did you leave, Sherlock? What is scaring you so much?”

“Do you remember what I said about love at your wedding, during my speech? ‘All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things’.”

Mary stiffened as a pained, “Oh,” escaped her lips.

Unable to bear causing her grief, he reached out with a hand to took one of hers. “Don’t be upset, just let me finish to explain.” He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back in response.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“What I’m trying to say is that up to tonight I had no idea of what I felt for you. After so many years spent repudiating every hint of romantic entanglement I was taken aback by the realization I’ve fallen in love.”

A slow smile appeared on Mary’s face. “You need time to cope with such a great change in your life and beliefs....this is what are you trying to say.”

“Exactly,” he breathed, relieved she understood.

Mary sobered again, and her eyes stared deeply into his own as she said, “Sherlock,  I’m sorry for this evening. I really had no idea how confusing this is for you. But now I know, and I promise I’ll leave you all the time you need. We can take it as slow as you wish, without any kind of pressure on my side. I love you, darling, and only want what is best for you.”

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Mary stood up. “I’m going home. I’ll be there when you return. To talk, to watch the rest of the movie or to do nothing. I’ll just be there.”

She smiled a final time and walked away, quickly disappearing into the night.

Sherlock  breathed deeply and listened to the cry of a nightly bird. His confusion was dissipating and beneath it he could see order and calm. He understood that even if it felt like his emotions were pulling him here and there, ultimately he was still in control of himself.

He could love in a romantic way without reneging the beliefs of his whole life.

He could love a woman, love Mary as she deserved to be loved, although he hadn’t the foggiest idea of what it would involve. He had never been in a relationship, he was emotionally immature and inexperienced—how could he give her what she needed?

Sherlock was about to scream in frustration, when he remembered what Mary had told him while talking about the reason her marriage with John hadn’t worked. She had said it was because she and John had fallen in love with a version of the other, but not with each other’s true self.

That wasn’t going to happen with him and Mary. She knew who he was. She knew about his temper and his quirks, about his good qualities and his faults, about his morose sulks and his manic excitement when someone popped up dead in strange circumstances.

In short Mary knew everything about him: the good, the not so good, and the bad. She loved him in spite of it—or because of it. She didn’t expect him to change.

It was the same for him: he loved the gentle nurse and caring flatmate she was now, but also the ruthless assassin she had been and could still be if circumstances forced her hand. He knew all of her and loved her.

Sherlock grinned, feeling full of resolve.

It was time to go home.

It was time to make the first step in this new adventure.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Sherlock’s newfound confidence faltered as he approached 221B door.

His hands were sweating, and he was clenching and unclenching them. He felt like a teenager, and in some way he was one, for some of his emotions were as new now at thirty-nine as they had been when he was a boy.

It was in that moment that Sherlock realized a fault in the practice of repressing all emotions, because emotions had the bad habit to return and haunt you when you’re unprepared to cope with them. Perhaps it would be better to learn how to control them, just enough to avoid them clouding his mind when he needed it to be sharp and clear.

He opened the door and went inside. He left is coat on the rack and began climbing the stairs, feeling both excited and anxious.

Mary was sitting on her favourite spot on the couch and she smiled when she saw him.

Sherlock smiled back, and then he locked his hand behind his back. He looked like a soldier in parade rest, and he cringed at how tense he looked, but truly he felt everything but relaxed.

“Mary,” he began, looking at her in earnest, his voice soft and low, “first of all I must apologize for my...uncivilized behaviour earlier this evening.”

She opened her mouth to speak but he stopped her with a tilt of his head.

“Please, let me finish. As I told you in the park all of this is new for me, and I’m feeling very inadequate and unsure, two feelings I have never liked. However, I’m also feeling certain of this: I love you Mary. I never thought I would ever say this line and truly mean it, but here I am.”

Sherlock’s heart rejoiced at the radiant expression appeared on Mary’s lovely face, and he continued. “However, as much as I’m certain of my feelings, I’m unsure of how to manifest them. As I have told you, I’ve never…you know. All my previous experience with a woman can be summarized in a few kisses and brief caresses with Janine...and I was only faking my feelings, so I’m not even sure they counted.”

He was aware he was blushing, but found no amusement or pity on Mary’s face, just understanding and love.

She stood up and crossed the brief distance separating them, stepping in front of him and loosely embracing his waist. He imitated her, wrapping her back with his arms.

“Sherlock,” she said, looking up at his face. “Don’t be afraid of your emotions or of your reactions to me. You can’t imagine what it means to me to know you’ve chosen me to give your love too. I considered myself lucky because a great man like you-- and I’m not referring to your accomplishments, but to you, to your inner greatness— had given his friendship to me.

Earlier this evening, I hadn’t predicted or planned to ask you those questions; I did it spurred by the movie we were watching and by the realization of how close I came to losing you today in the aquarium....and I saw my dream become reality.” Mary smiled, her eyes shining with unshed tears of joy. “Your behaviour was everything but uncivilized. I found it…endearing. Intoxicating.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow at her choice of words, and her smile became impudent.

“Have you any idea of how heady it is to know the man you love is still…untouched?”

He shook his head and blushed, as his body stirred under her hungry look.

“I’ve always scowled when I heard men make the same comment about women, but now I cannot help but feel proud to be your first.”

“My first and my only,” Sherlock declared, tightening his embrace.

“Yes, I know. I feel honoured by it, Sherlock, and know that even if you obviously aren’t my first, I promise you’ll be my last.” Mary’s eyes burned with her promise.

Sherlock grinned and commented, “Well, all considering I think it’s a good thing you’ve experience to share with me.”

Mary laughed throatily, sending a shiver along his back. “Oh yes, that’s true.”

She stepped back from him and he was about to let his arms fall at his sides when she took his hand in hers and tugged it, as she looked toward the open door of his bedroom. “Do you want to try now?”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. Would it not be better to go slow? To learn how to be comfortable in each other’s arms?

He looked at Mary pink-red cheeks and heaving breasts and understood she didn’t wish to wait—and neither did he.

So he bowed his head in agreement and let her guide him toward his bedroom.

Once in there, Sherlock let go of Mary’s hand and stood there, rigid, willing and yet reticent. He wanted to be with her, to physically express his feelings for her, but he was also afraid to lose his control, to let the tide of his emotions carry him in some uncharted territory.

Mary sensed his discomfort and raised a hand to touch his cheek.

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t feel like doing it, Sherlock. As I told you before, we can take it as slow as you wish. We can just lay down and sleep together; get used to the feel of each other.”

Sherlock’s mood lightened and he nodded, “I would like that very much.”

“Perfect,” Mary beamed at him and circled the bed, instinctively knowing where he preferred to sleep. She threw back the covers from the unused side of the bed and sat down to remove her shoes and trousers. Then, clad only in her large t-shirt, slid under the blankets with a naturalness he couldn’t help but envy.

Strengthening his resolve, Sherlock sat on a chair and pulled off his shoes, then started to remove his clothes. Blazer, trousers, shirt and socks: each item was accurately folded and put over the chair. He hesitated for a moment then went to his closet to take a clean pair of boxers.

“Be right back in a minute.”

He went to the bathroom and took a quick shower without wetting his hair, making sure to remove all the dry evidence of what had happened earlier in the evening.

Feeling clean and more at ease, he slipped on the clean boxers and returned in the bedroom.

As he walked toward his bed, Sherlock was acutely aware of Mary’s eyes fixed on his bare chest and for the first time in his life he wondered about his looks. He had always considered his body like a tool, the transport of his brilliant mind. The time spent chasing Moriarty’s men and in Chechnya had hardened his body and kept his reflexes honed, but he had never considered how attractive his body could be or not. He was tall, but not that much, slender, lithe, and compact.

Mary seemed to read his mind, because she murmured, “You’re very handsome, Sherlock.”

He blushed for the umpteenth time, out of embarrassment but also out of pleasure. The woman he loved found him attractive and it helped to quiet some of his inner doubts.

He got into bed and adjusted the pillow under his head, before turning his face to smile at Mary.

He leaned closer to give her a chaste kiss on her cheek and switched off the light.

“Good night, Mary.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

Silence fell in the moonlight-bathed room, and Sherlock felt his muscles slowly relax, when he felt Mary roll on her side.

“Sherlock?” she whispered.

“Uhm?”

“May I hold you?”

“Yes, you may,” he answered, turning his head to meet her luminous gaze. They had embraced many times, and the idea of having Mary near as he slept was appealing.

She smiled and scooted closer to him, resting her head on his chest and wrapping an arm around his waist.

The relaxed mood he had fallen into disappeared at once. The scent of her hair, the feel of her skin against his own, her breath fanning the hair on his chest—everything contributed to make him restless and wide awake. Warmth spread from where their bodies touched to his groin, and his heartbeat quickened.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat when Mary’s hand started to caress his belly. His muscles quivered under her touch and he moved his legs and shifted his weight, not knowing if it was an attempt to get away from her touch, or if he was trying to get closer.

“Sherlock?” Mary’s voice, a mere whisper against his neck, almost startled him.

“Yes?”

“Sherlock. I’m sorry, darling…but I don’t think I can stand to be near you and just sleep. I need you too much.”

Need. That was the feeling burning inside him, making him restless and anxious. Need. He needed her too.

“I understand,” he answered, and this time he really did. His arms rose to embrace her and he added, “Teach me, Mary. Teach me to give you what you need.”

Mary scooted up along his body until her face hovered over his. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Sherlock closed his eyes as her lips descended on his own.

The kiss started very sweet, just a brushing of lips, but soon Sherlock felt the need to open them, and let Mary inside him. He moaned low in his throat as her tongue explored his mouth, and he tentatively reciprocated her moves.

He had always been a fast learner and soon he was taking as much as he gave, lost in the pleasure of their tongues duelling and mating with each other.

When they finally separated, they were both breathing hard, but Sherlock had just a moment to recover before Mary started to cover his body with open mouthed kisses. Neck, shoulders, chest, and belly: her skilled mouth trailed a damp path across his skin, stimulating nerve endings he didn’t even know he had.

His control had completely slipped and he was now at her mercy—and happy to be so.

Sherlock moaned and groaned and then cried out as Mary removed his boxer briefs. She threw back the covers and sat at his side, looking down at his bare form. He flushed in embarrassment as he caught her studying his erection and he fought the absurd desire to cover himself. He knew there was nothing wrong in it. This was what males and females had done since the night of times. There was no reason to be ashamed.

Sherlock cried out again and thrashed on the mattress, his hand clutching the bed sheet as Mary ran her cool fingertips along his shaft.

“Please…” he panted, not really knowing what he was pleading for.

“Soon, my darling,” Mary answered, as she let go of him to remove her t-shirt and bra.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as her flesh was revealed to him. Smooth skin, rose-tipped firm breasts, a slightly rounded belly marred by the C-section scar and the triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs. His hands twitched with the desire to touch her, and he did just that, running the back of his fingers along her flanks, her front, from collarbone to navel, watching in wonder as she threw back her head and her nipples hardened.

Sherlock rose to kneel in front of Mary, and cupped her cheeks in his palms, pulling her close for a deep, demanding kiss. Then he copied her previous moves as he discovered her: brow, cheeks, chin, earlobes, neck—every bit of soft skin was explored and kissed. He moved down to her breasts and led by an impulse he gently rubbed his stubble-covered cheeks and chin against her pale globes, causing her to cry out.

“Do it again, Sherlock,” she moaned and he obliged her, again and again, relishing in her whimpers of pleasure and in the knowledge he was able to bring such joy to her.

Sherlock thought he could spend the whole night just listening to Mary’s moans, but his body had different ideas. The restlessness he had felt when she had first touched him had returned and was now stronger. He sensed he needed something, that his body craved something, but even if he intellectually knew what it was, he didn’t know how to achieve it.

“Mary,” he said hoarsely, embracing her and gasping aloud at the friction caused by her belly against his hard member. “Help me…I don’t know what to do…”

“My poor Sherlock,” Mary murmured with a tender smile, brushing back his sweaty hair with both her hands. “You need release, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Then come into me, my love. I’m ready for you.” And before he could do anything, Mary rose to her knees and straddled his bent legs, coming to hover over him. She looked down at his face, smiled at his burning, confused, expectant eyes, and taking hold of his erection she guided it to her opening and sank down on it.

Sherlock cried out and threw back his head as he felt his most intimate flesh being engulfed by her warmth and tightness. He had never imagined it could feel like this…

“You all right?” Mary asked, cupping his cheek.

He nodded wordlessly, not trusting his voice not to break.

Putting her hands on his shoulders and using them as leverage, Mary started moving up and down over him, and the friction between their bodies caused a new bout of pleasure in him.

He began to pant and moan in rhythm with her movements, as his hands convulsively clutched her waist, helping and encouraging her motions.

It went on for several moments, until Sherlock felt the overwhelming desire to move, to thrust. To claim—and he decided to abandon himself to his most primal instinct.

He embraced Mary and rose to his knees pressing her back against the mattress and lowering himself atop of her. Her legs surrounded his waist as her fingernails raked along his sides, silently spurring him to move.

Sherlock began to thrust, first awkwardly, then finding a rhythm that seemed to please both of them. Their moans and groans filled the room along with the sounds of bare flesh slapping against bare flesh, and they became louder and more frequent as Sherlock, listening to his instincts and Mary’s pleas, quickened the pace of his pumping hips.

The tightness in his belly increased as a tingling sensation spread in his body until the moment release claimed him and he came hard, crying out Mary’s name, barely aware of the spasms and contractions wracking her smaller body.

Sherlock’s arms shook and he had just the time to move to the side before collapsing on the mattress, physically and emotionally exhausted. He closed his eyes, then opened them again as he felt her hand brush against his own. He moved his hand and their fingers intertwined, as he turned his head to look at his lover.

“How do you feel?” Mary whispered.

“I feel well,” he answered, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing its back, before lowering it over his chest, near his slowing-down heart. “I feel at peace with myself. Happy. And you?”

Mary beamed, “I feel joyous...fulfilled.”

“Good,” Sherlock muttered as sleep began to creep over him. He pulled Mary back into his arms and kissed her softly. Their legs intertwined and she put her head over his chest, as one of his arms embraced her back.

Soon afterward Mary fell asleep, and he let her quiet breath lull him into slumber.

His last conscious thought before falling asleep was of Mycroft and the fact his brother was wrong.

Caring was an advantage.

It was completeness.

It was strength.

**EPILOGUE**

**16 months later**

 

Sherlock paced back and forth in the hospital corridor, trying and failing to dispel his anxiety and fear as beyond the closed doors of the operating theatre where his wife and their child fought for their life. His parents, Mycroft, Molly, Greg and Mrs. Hudson all sat in the waiting room; after he had bit Mycroft’s head off when his brother had told him pacing was a useless waste of strength, no one else had dared to stay with him.

Mary’s pregnancy had come as a surprise. She had been told that with her age and the abrupt end of her previous pregnancy the chances of getting pregnant were scarce-- but she had still hoped. They had agreed early on in their relationship that they would happily welcome any new addition, but they would also not make an issue of it if it didn’t happen. They had simply left it in Nature’s hands and finally, seven months after their first time, it had happened.

Sherlock had been warming to the idea of having a baby around since he had diagnosed Mary’s first pregnancy and her and John’s wedding. He had anticipated how interesting it would have been to observe the development of a new personality, to see if he could be the one to finally solve the nature vs. nurture debate. He had had fun thinking about how delightful it would have been to teach the child to say ‘murder’ as their first word.

So when he learned he was going to be a father, he had been ecstatic. I would be a new adventure, a new mystery to unravel with Mary by his side.

They had agreed some things had to change, as the flat would have to be baby-proofed and keeping chemicals in the kitchen would no longer be an option. Sherlock had thus hired a few members of his homeless network to clean, repair and repaint 221C, transforming the little mouldy flat into his new office-workplace-lab. This way he would always be just a shout away from Mary and the baby up in 221B.

The few first months of Mary’s pregnancy had been unremarkable, which was a good thing for it meant there was no kind of complications. Then one day Sherlock had gone with her for the first scan and had seen his child for the first time. It wasn’t the first time he saw a scan, but where in the past he had just noticed a glob of cells, now he observed his baby. Hearing the foetus’ heartbeat had overwhelmed him so much he had returned home almost in a daze, with Mary leading him by one hand.

That same night he had poured all of his emotion in music, composing a lullaby for his child, as Mary listened, eyes misty but smiling.

His family and their friends had been enthusiastic to hear they were expecting, even John.

Especially John.

His friend’s rehab stint had lasted six months, and when he returned to London he was a different man, a man who had faced and defeated all the demons of his past and was better and stronger for it. In the beginning the relationship with John had been hesitant as they had tried to rebuild their friendship, but in the end things had smoothed and returned to normality.

John returned to follow Sherlock on cases when he had time, and it hadn’t taken long before John had invited Sherlock and Mary to dinner at his new flat, where he had introduced them to Adrianne, his girlfriend and future fiancé.

Sherlock had been grateful to get back his best friend, and he knew that, in a conversation he had not been privy of, Mary and John had mended things between them and healed the wounds they had inflicted to each other.

And then today had happened.

It had started as a normal Saturday, the only exception being the presence of his parents in town. They had come to see a theatrical play and they were staying at Mycroft’s. They of course had wanted to see Sherlock and Mary, whom would have preferred not to see anyone because she had been feeling unwell, with nauseam, cramps and headache.

“It’s just the flu,” she had said to Sherlock. “I’ve lost count of how many sick people I’ve seen this week. It will pass.”

They had all been talking – or rather, his mother had been talking telling Mary about how long she had laboured to give birth to Mycroft – when John had stopped to drop by and return an umbrella they had loaned him a few days before.

Sherlock’s mother had then insisted that Mary should get checked by John, because he could certainly prescribe her some anti-flu medication suitable for woman in the last decade of pregnancy. So Mary had reluctantly told John about her symptoms  as everyone looked on amused, because Maureen Holmes had, as usual, had her way.

However the merriment hadn’t last long. Because John after looking at Mary’s eyes had paled and ordered, “Call an ambulance, Sherlock. Now!”

During the trip toward Bart’s John had explained that the jaundice he had seen in Mary’s eyes, added to her vomiting, abdominal cramps and headache made him suspect she was suffering from HELLP Syndrom, a potentially life threatening condition for both mother and child.

At the hospital the clinical test had confirmed John’s diagnosis. Mary had been prepared for an induced labour, as a VBAC _–_ Vaginal Birth After Cesarean- had been reputed less dangerous for Mary than a C-section, since HELLP could cause blood clotting problems.

Sherlock had held Mary’s hand while the gurney was pushed toward the operating theatre, then they had been separated by John.

“They’re allowing me inside because I’m a doctor and I was at Uni with the chief obstetric, but you can’t enter Sherlock.”

He had tried to circle his friend but John had grabbed him by the shoulders and said, “I know how you feel, Sherlock-- I’ve been in your place, remember? And trust me if I tell you would only be a distraction inside that room. Mary needs all her focus and the doctors need room to act if there are complications.”

Sherlock had nodded, dumbly.

John had relaxed his grip on his shoulder and said, “Now go in the waiting room and sit. Your family and friends are all there, they will help you. I promise I’ll call you should things take a turn for the worse, but I’m confident everything will go well. Mary is strong and we caught this in time. Have faith, okay?” Sherlock had nodded again and watched as his best friend had disappeared behind the steel doors.

That had been more than four hours and since then Sherlock had been an emotional wreck. Even if he had known  her for a relatively short time, Sherlock couldn’t imagine a life without Mary.

She was perfect for him; they were both scarred, flawed people shaped by a hard past, had both done bad things but now strived to be better people. They both accepted the other was who he or she was, with no attempt to change them.

Since Mary came to live with him, Sherlock had completely stopped using drugs, not because she had asked him to do so, but because he discovered he no longer needed them. Mary gave him the stimulation he craved when he was bored and offered him a safe harbour when he felt the need to escape from the world.

Sherlock had often wondered if he was as good for Mary as she was for him, but all of his concerns had been quelled by the quickness she had exclaimed “Yes!” when he had proposed her.

They had had a simple civil ceremony, with just his family and their closest friends and both had been delighted when John had accepted to be Mary’s witness, while Mycroft had been Sherlock’s.

The discovery of Mary’s pregnancy after their return from a brief vacation in Ireland had been like a cherry over a delightful cake...until now.

Suddenly the squeaking sound of a door opening stopped Sherlock’s pacing. He turned around and saw John, still in scrubs, come toward him. He ran toward his friend and asked breathless, “Mary? The child?”

John took him by the shoulders and smiled broadly, “Mary is fine and so is your son.”

“It’s a boy?” Sherlock whispered.

“Yes, a healthy, perfect boy. Congratulations!”

Sherlock felt like he could breathe again, but then his legs weakened and John had to support him to the closest chair, where he sat heavily.

“Are you all right?” John asked.

“Yes...just overwhelmed with relief.”

His friend nodded. “Then stay here until you feel better. I’m going to talk with the others and then I’ll come back to take you to Mary. She will need to stay here in observation for a few days, but the worst is over and she will recover quickly.”

“All right,” Sherlock replied, before leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes, as a grin appeared on his lips. He couldn’t wait to see Mary and meet the boy they had made together.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

The instant Sherlock held his son for the first time he realized that his entire life up to now had been in preparation for that moment.

 _This is why I’ve been born_ , he thought as held the newborn carefully, as though it was made of fragile crystal. He observed the tiny face and two pale blue eyes staring back at him, as a bout of fiery love and protectiveness surged inside him. His eyes filled with tears, and he didn’t brush them away, nor did he hide them from the on-looking doctors and nurses.

“Mary is settled now,” John whispered in his ear, “You may go in to see her.”

Sherlock flashed a brief smile at his friend, then entered the room John indicated to him.

Mary was sitting in bed with an IV attached to her left arm and a blood-pressure sensor connected to her right index finger. She smiled when she saw him approach carrying the little blue bundle in his arms.

“Hello,” Mary said softly and a little slurred.

Sherlock walked to the bed and made to sit down on a chair, to be closer to his wife’s face.

“No…here,” Mary patted the mattress by her side, and he gingerly sat on it, trying not to cause any discomfort.

“How do you feel?” He enquired softly.

“Tired and sore.”

“He’ll make you feel better,” Sherlock replied, handing her their son.

Mary took the squirming bundle in her arms and touched the newborn’s face with delicate fingers, “He is perfect…wonderful.”

“Yes, he is,” Sherlock whispered, his voice unsteady, as he allowed himself to express all the emotions he felt: love, pride, relief, wonder, awe, joy and many others he couldn’t even name. He composed himself, then leaned forward to kiss Mary’s upturned face.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“No, thank you,” she murmured back, tired, still sweaty and so happy her eyes looked even bluer.

There was a knock on the door and John put his head inside. “Can we come in? They are getting impatient.”

Sherlock looked down at Mary and she nodded.

John opened the door wider and one by one his family and their friends came in. His mother and father were teary eyed but beaming; Mycroft looked curious but also mildly alarmed he may be asked to hold the baby; Greg had a shit-eating grin on his face and was waving a single cigar; Mrs. Hudson was already planning about knitting something awful they would need to accept gratefully; Molly’s fingers were twitching with the desire to hold the child. As for John, he was happy for his friends but, just like Mary, he couldn’t help but think about Rosie.

Sherlock and Mary shared a look and she nodded. He put an arm around her shoulder as she moved the blanket out of the way, to show the newborn better.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sherlock began, “let me introduce you to William Sherrinford John Holmes.” There were ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’, an especially loud one coming from John.

Mary smiled at him and explained, “William after Sherlock, Sherrinford because he is a Holmes and needs an uncommon name and John after the best and wisest man we have ever known.” They had agreed on those names one evening about a month before, when Mary had insisted her instinct told her it was going to be a boy.

People started speaking at the same time offering congratulations and best wishes, all trying to get closer to the bed to see little boy better.

However, Sherlock had just eyes for Mary and Sherrinford, the two loves of his life.

His greatest adventure had begun.

The game was on—and it would be the best ever.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About HELLP Syndrome: http://americanpregnancy.org/pregnancy-complications/hellp-syndrome/


End file.
